


Succession

by Jaybee65



Series: LFN Pre-Canon [2]
Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, TR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-14
Updated: 2007-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 120,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybee65/pseuds/Jaybee65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).  [Clarification regarding rape/non-con warning:  this refers to the LFN practice of valentine missions, which strictly speaking would qualify as non-con.  There is no graphic rape or non-con scene in this story.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to another one of my stories, _Intersections_. However, it isn't absolutely necessary to have read the prior story. Contains spoilers through Season 4 of LFN. Thanks to Debbie Biv and Ms. Cyanide for the beta and encouragement.

## Part One - 1983

 

The car rolled slowly at first. Then it picked up speed, tires humming on pavement as it plunged downhill.

Hands thrust into her coat pockets, Madeline watched the car careen off the curve of the road, over the embankment, and then out of view entirely. In the darkness, she couldn't see the two forms strapped inside -- nor could they, drugged and unconscious, see her watching. Yet their presence was the only thing she was fully aware of; unable to pull away, her mind traveled with them, leaving her body behind. When she heard the car splash into the river, she felt the icy water as it rose to surround and claim them. It was everywhere, black with silt, filling her lungs and chilling her skin. But just as she sank, helpless, to the murky river-bottom, she shivered and returned to herself.

The car that had just been pushed into oblivion belonged to her. The elderly man in the passenger seat was her teacher, mentor, employer -- and target -- of the past eight years. As for the dark-haired woman behind the steering wheel -- that was Madeline. Or so the authorities would find when they tried to identify the bodies. The Section had made sure of that.

She waited, ignoring the sharp wind that cut against her face, until her companions motioned that it was time to leave. The two men turned and began to trudge uphill; mutely, she fell in step with them. The men moved slowly, unhurriedly, their faces blank with the boredom of those to whom murder was a dull routine. She matched their pace and mirrored their expressions, turning her back to the river and what it contained.

At the crest of the hill, they reached a van parked alongside the road. She entered the rear; the men slammed the door behind her and took their own seats in the front. They pulled away with a jerk and a roar of the engine, leaving the scene behind.

The scene of her death. Or rather, her second death. Of how many to come, she had no idea.

She had learned of her fate a mere ten hours earlier. With her target having announced his retirement the day before, her mission was complete. Thus her identity -- the one that she had spent the past decade creating, cultivating, growing attached to, living -- became, overnight, nonfunctional. Superfluous. And so, with a phone call that afternoon, the Section told her that her life was over. That she would walk away and become someone else altogether -- that she would die, and be reborn. She would be expected to change existences the way other people might change clothes -- casually, and without sentiment.

That old life, the one she was abandoning, had been full of falsehoods and treachery. It was fitting, then, that she would end it with one final act of betrayal. Retired, her target would no longer provide new intel; but so long as he lived, his knowledge was a source of power to the Section's enemies. Hence he would die -- and at her hands. It didn't matter that, after all those years, she had grown rather fond of him, despite her disgust at the nature of his work. It didn't matter that he was one of the few people who had ever been kind to her -- that he trusted and cared for her, and had tried, in his own way, to help and protect her. It didn't even matter that she had spent more time with him than with any other person in her life -- that in certain respects, he knew her better than almost anyone alive. It was her job, her duty, to kill him. And so she did.

She approached him from behind, syringe in hand, injecting him in the neck before he could cry out. He slumped to the floor almost immediately, but, for a few split seconds, his eyes remained open, struggling to focus on her as she stood above him. She watched him for those last few moments, transfixed by the sequence of emotions that played across his face: first shock, then fear, then hurt, then, lastly, to her surprise, admiration. Admiration, she imagined, for the fact that she had fooled him so thoroughly and for so long. Perhaps he felt it made her worthy of the knowledge he had passed onto her -- or perhaps he knew, as she did, that a part of him would always survive in her. Finally, he smiled, closed his eyes, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

His death was painless, even peaceful. She supposed she owed him that. He was fortunate, in the end: a man who had caused others indescribable torment, he met his own end without suffering. She doubted that she would be so lucky.

The van began to slow, weaving its way through traffic as it returned to the city. How long had they been driving? She had dozed off to sleep, missing most of the journey. Now, it appeared, they were back in Paris, on their way to…she wasn't quite sure. No one had told her what her new assignment would be, how long it might last, when it would start.

The van turned, made a sharp descent into an underground tunnel, and then stopped. She held her breath, waiting. One of the men turned back to look at her.

"Welcome to Section One," he said.

***

Lisa Birkoff frowned and read the text on the computer screen for what felt like the thousandth time, mentally parsing the code that persisted in its maddening refusal to do what she wanted. After hours perched on the tiny chair, she'd lost feeling in her thighs, so in a halfhearted effort to get the circulation moving again she swiveled the chair back and forth a few times. It squeaked painfully, so she stopped.

"Hey, Lisa," said a voice from behind her shoulder.

Startled, she jumped and swung around. Walter looked down at her with a bemused expression.

"What are you still doing here, kiddo?" he asked. "It's two a.m. -- you're supposed to be getting your beauty sleep."

She leaned back in her chair and gave him a tired smile. "I'm trying to teach myself a little computer programming. But I've got to do it during the off hours, when I won't get in anyone's way. Otherwise our computer gurus chase me off."

"Are you kidding?" Walter scrunched up his face. "What are you giving yourself extra work for? It's not like they don't give us enough to do already."

"Well," she said, "that's kind of the point. I need some sort of skill so I can get the hell out of fieldwork. Increase my life expectancy. That sort of thing." She forced a dry laugh.

"Ahhh, smart gal." He nodded and clapped his hand on her shoulder. "That's how I got into Munitions, you know. I figured I'd better find some sort of specialty that kept me in here where it's safe. Or relatively safe, that is," he corrected with a chuckle. "Great minds think alike, huh?"

She grinned. "Yeah, I guess so." Turning back to her monitor, she continued, "Anyway, I'm writing a program to speed up the data transmittal between the security sensors and our mainframes. I've almost got it, but there are some bugs that are driving me crazy."

He pulled over a chair and sat down next to her, squinting as he examined the screen.

"I'll be damned," he said admiringly. "You taught yourself how to do this without any help?"

"Yeah," she said, feeling a blush heat her face. "But it's really not that hard. You just have to be persistent."

He shook his head. "Look, Lisa, don't be modest. If you want to survive in this place, you've got to trumpet your successes as loud as you can. Why, when I...."

Walter continued his story, but Lisa found herself distracted by the sight of three figures crossing the floor nearby. The two men she recognized as Housekeeping goons -- the kind of people who gave her crawling goosebumps when she ran into them in isolated corners of Section. But the woman walking alongside them was a stranger -- a stranger who held herself with a curious, aloof air, yet whose gaze swept across the room like a spotlight, inspecting every angle.

"Who's that?" asked Lisa.

Walter blinked. "Who?"

"That woman with Parsons and Bell. I don't remember seeing her before, but she doesn't have that freaked out look that the rookies always do."

Walter turned to follow Lisa's gaze. His eyes widened at the sight.

"Holy shit," he muttered.

"You know her?"

"We've met."

"So, c'mon, who is she?" asked Lisa, intrigued by the grimness in his tone.

He hesitated for an uncomfortably long time.

"The only person I've ever met who I think might belong in this place," he said, finally.

Puzzled, Lisa opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but Walter held up his hand.

"Shh. Not now. They're coming our way."

As the group approached, their conversation became audible.

"We'll show you to your quarters for now," said Parsons. "Your team leader will come for you in the morning to take you to your orientation."

The woman nodded and then, looking up, caught Walter's eye. She held his gaze for a few moments -- just long enough to demonstrate that she recognized him -- but turned away without expression.

Lisa and Walter watched until the three were again out of earshot.

"Man, I don't know what she's doing here," said Walter, "but whatever it is, it isn't good."

***

It was eight a.m. sharp. Paul reached for the buzzer, then hesitated. He placed his hand against the wall and leaned there for a few moments, taking long, slow breaths to ready himself.

Adrian had given him less than twenty-four hours' notice of the arrival -- and identity -- of his new team member. During that time, he hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't worked. Instead, he just paced -- first in his office, then all night in his quarters -- his emotions whipsawing from elation to anxiety, from anticipation to apprehension.

For the past three years, ever since Madeline had banished him from her life, Paul had been trying to put her out of his mind. To that end, he had turned to his work, attacking it with a newly-found intensity. When that wasn't enough, he also turned to other women, with equal intensity, and in numbers he lost count of. They had all been beautiful and engaging, and he had thoroughly enjoyed their company. Yet still, when he noticed a slim brunette of Madeline's height on the street, he often found himself staring, heart pounding, caught up in the forlorn hope that he could at least glimpse her again. Of course, he never had.

Now, without warning, she was here in Section One. Assigned to his team, no less. He couldn't decide if he was thrilled or sickened at the prospect.

Clenching his jaw, he reached for the buzzer and rang it, and clasped his hands behind him to wait. The door opened almost instantly; startled, he took a step backwards. Then their eyes met, and he steeled himself for what would happen next.

They held each other's gaze, but neither of them spoke. She seemed to be waiting for him to start; he was at a loss for what to say. He searched her eyes, examined her expression, trying to judge her mood so that he might determine the best approach. What he saw -- a tightness in her face, a strange light in her eyes -- surprised him even as he recognized what it was. It was that same anxious excitement that was causing his stomach to churn, except better disguised: an uneasy balance of jubilation and trepidation, forced beneath a thin veneer of feigned impassivity.

Seeing his own feelings reflected in her expression gave him a burst of courage. He moved toward her, and she backed away, allowing him entry into the quarters. He closed the door and stood watching her, intent on reading every trace of emotion that passed, however faintly, across her face. When he rang the buzzer, he had expected to find the woman who had dismissed him so coldly -- instead, he saw someone at war with herself.

He took a step closer, intending to reach for her, to pull her into his arms, to crush her body against his, to run his hands through her hair and down her back, to bend down and press his lips hungrily against hers -- to do everything he had dreamed of doing were he to see her again -- but, once more, she moved away. She glanced at the floor for a few seconds, and when she looked back up her expression was transformed: calm, controlled, indifferent.

"I take it you're my team leader," she said.

His stomach contracted as if he had been slammed with a punch. "That's right," he answered dully, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. He had been wrong in his assessment of her emotions a moment ago. Three years had passed, and she had moved on, even if he hadn't. He had been reading in her eyes what he wanted to see, not what was there.

She took a military stance. "Then I'm ready to begin my orientation."

"Well, then," he answered, turning toward the door to hide his disappointment, "come with me."

***

Footsteps sounded along the metal stairs leading to Adrian's office, and then a knock tapped against the open door. Adrian ignored it and continued to read her report. Her visitors were several minutes late, and that would not do. They would wait, as a reminder of the virtues of timeliness.

She finished four more pages and finally looked up. Paul and Madeline stood just outside the office, waiting side by side with their hands clasped in front of them. Their matching posture caught Adrian off guard; their identical expressions left her vaguely unsettled. While it was no doubt unconscious on their part, their stance looked almost practiced, like a deliberate show of strength. In the shadows outside her doorway, they stood like grim sentries, waiting silently -- not for her summons, but for something indefinable.

She pushed that thought away. "Please, both of you, come in and sit down."

Paul nodded at Madeline to go first, and the two entered the room and seated themselves in the chairs in front of Adrian's desk. In the light of her office, their differences showed -- that appearance of unity melted away like the illusion Adrian now knew it was. Paul sat more restlessly than usual; he shifted positions every few moments, nearly radiating anxiety and discomfort. Madeline kept her hands folded on her lap and her spine straight, at attention. Her face was blank -- blank, but not wholly unreadable. She stared, a bit too intently, at an imaginary spot on Adrian's desk, in an obvious effort to avoid looking at Adrian's eyes. She was afraid, Adrian decided. Good. Adrian intended to keep her that way. An operative with her particular brand of training needed to be kept firmly under control.

"Good morning, and welcome to One, Madeline," Adrian said. "I trust you slept well."

"Quite well, thank you."

Madeline looked up and smiled, shifting into a pleasant demeanor as suddenly as if she had flipped a light switch. Adrian bit back an urge to grimace. Perhaps that sort of pseudo-warmth fooled some people, but its manufactured nature set Adrian's nerves on edge.

"The quarters are temporary, until we make arrangements on the outside. I hope it's not too uncomfortable in the meantime."

"Not at all." Again, that smile. It flashed, then faded too quickly.

Adrian drummed her fingers on her desk, long enough to make the waiting uncomfortable, until she saw a hint of nervousness return to the young woman's eyes. She then took a exaggerated breath and frowned.

"Your status here is a bit difficult to categorize," she said, speaking slowly so as to appear reluctant to raise the subject. "At Section Two, you were an experienced operative, already Level Five." She paused, allowing the fact that she had used the past tense to sink in. "However, the work we do here is quite different from what you've been used to. Under the circumstances, I concluded a demotion was, regretfully, necessary. Henceforth you'll be recategorized as Level Two."

Madeline blinked but said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Adrian saw Paul shift suddenly in his seat.

"Please don't take it in a negative way," Adrian continued, ignoring Paul's reaction. "It's not intended as a reprimand or a punishment. It's merely a recognition that you lack a certain type of experience."

"Of course." The agreeable demeanor had vanished; Madeline's tone was all business. Cold as it was, Adrian actually preferred it. At least it was honest.

"There is one special matter, however," she said.

Madeline arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Thanks to your assignment at Section Two, you've developed a rather unusual expertise. As a result, in addition to your other duties, I'm assigning you to take on the project of modernizing and streamlining some of our intelligence gathering procedures. In particular, with respect to the interrogation of captives." Adrian smiled. "I thought you might enjoy doing some work that's more familiar to you."

She studied Madeline for a reaction. To her disappointment, there was none.

"I'm glad my prior training will continue to be of use," was all Madeline said, her voice quiet.

"Your educational background also suits you for profiling, which I anticipate will eventually become your primary duty. However, before you can begin doing that, you need some field experience. That's why you've been assigned to Paul's team."

Adrian nodded at Paul, for the first time acknowledging his presence. His posture hadn't lost any of its tension.

She turned back to Madeline. "Working with a familiar face should be reassuring, don't you think?"

"I appreciate that," said Madeline, once again switching on that artificial warmth.

Adrian repressed a cynical roll of her eyes and determined that she would shut that pretense of pleasantness off for good. Madeline would have to learn -- the hard way, if need be -- that Adrian couldn't be charmed, couldn't be manipulated -- that, indeed, things would go much more easily for her if she dealt with Adrian forthrightly, without any charade that she was anything more than what she was: a monster, to be entrusted with some of the Section's ugliest tasks. There was a place for her in the Section -- a respected place, even -- if she would learn to live within her limits. It was time to start setting them.

"You need to be aware," Adrian said sternly, "you and Paul will have a very different relationship from before."

Madeline stiffened. The warmth faded, as Adrian intended that it would.

"When you helped Paul escape captivity in the Ukraine, you were colleagues. Equals. Now, you'll be his subordinate. Is that going to pose a problem?"

"No."

Adrian turned back to Paul. "Have you given any thought to what her first mission should be?"

"I think Tripoli would work."

"No, that's more than a month away. I suggest Vienna."

"Vienna?" He scowled. "That's just four days from now. She needs more time for training."

"Time is a luxury for the indolent and the unmotivated. Four days should be quite more than adequate. After all, she isn't completely inexperienced, you know."

He fidgeted in his chair, his reluctance obvious. "We're likely to come under fire. She doesn't have any combat experience."

"Well," said Adrian tartly, "if you doubt her abilities that much, perhaps I should assign her to another team. I believe Charles has an opening."

"That's not what I meant." Paul stole a look at Madeline, who was regarding him with an expression that Adrian felt certain was resentment. "I just want to make sure that she's integrated into the team smoothly."

Adrian chuckled. Paul was so transparent, especially when he resorted to platitudes. "Paul, I appreciate your desire to protect your team members. It's truly noble. But here, as you well know, we must all learn to fend for ourselves. Besides, I'm sure Madeline doesn't want to be coddled, now does she? She won't make it back to Level Five very quickly that way."

Paul started to open his mouth to reply, but apparently thought better of it. Next to him, Madeline looked furious.

"Very good," said Adrian, satisfied that she had yanked their leashes adequately. "Vienna it is."


	2. Chapter 2

The door to the shooting range squealed and slammed closed as Paul stepped inside. The range looked empty at first, but the walls reverberated with a steady thunder of shots, so he walked along the points and glanced into each as he passed. When he reached the far end, he finally found Madeline, firing rapidly at her target.

Her hearing blocked by heavy earmuffs, she didn't notice him behind her -- or, if she did, she ignored him. So he waited and observed. Her stance was right, her grip correct, her aim superb. There was nothing more she needed to work on -- at least not for target shooting. Combat shooting was another matter altogether, and yet practicing on the range would get her nowhere. So why was she doing this?

He checked his watch. Twenty after midnight. This was ridiculous. She'd been shooting for hours, using up enough ammunition to see an entire team through a mission.

Her body rocked slightly backwards with the recoil of each shot until she emptied her clip. She popped it out and was turning to reach for a new one when she spotted him. She eyed him for a moment with a slightly irritated expression. Then she set down the gun, removed her earmuffs and glasses, and ran a hand through her hair.

"Do you need something?" she asked, her voice low with fatigue.

"I think that's enough. Why don't you call it a night?"

"I'm not finished." Her expression tightened, accentuating the shadows that crossed her face.

He placed his hand on her arm. "You don't need to push yourself like this."

"The mission is only thirty-two hours from now. I have to be ready." She spoke with the bitter resolve of someone on a death march -- her eyes were clouded, looking right through him to focus on some faraway place.

"You're as ready as you're going to be on short notice. Just stay close to me and I'll look out for you."

His words seemed to take a moment to register. When they did, her reaction surprised him. Instead of relaxing, she straightened her posture, and her gaze -- so dull a moment before -- sharpened in anger.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked. "How am I going to be of any use if all I do is follow you around?"

"You won't." He shrugged. "But don't worry about it. Think of it as a real-life training run."

She pulled away and crossed her arms. "That's unacceptable."

He laughed. "_I'm_ the team leader, remember? I'm the one who gets to decide what's acceptable or not."

Something flashed deep within her eyes: resentment, wounded pride, or maybe both. During their meeting with Adrian, she had claimed that she could adjust to being his subordinate -- but the expression on her face, the rigid way her jaw was set, belied those earlier words. He groaned inwardly. She wasn't going to make this easy.

"How will you explain to the rest of your team that you're going to be too busy babysitting me to oversee the mission properly?" Her voice was calm, but tinged with sarcasm.

So that was it. She was worried about being seen as a burden by the team. Understandable, but wrong.

"They understand," he assured her. "In fact, they think it's ridiculous that Adrian gave you this assignment."

"Do they? And why would they think that?"

As she glared at him, he found himself growing increasingly exasperated. He didn't remember her being so difficult before. When they had known each other years earlier, they rarely argued -- but now, without warning, she was getting unreasonably angry with him. And for what? For being realistic about her ability to take care of herself out in the field? That was childish.

Losing patience, he returned the glare. "Why? Because it's been at least ten years since you've had any combat training. Because you have virtually no field experience. Because you've never shot anyone, never been shot at, never had to run for your life while--"

"You don't know that."

Something in her tone caught his attention. It wasn't resentment, wasn't a fit of temper -- instead, her voice had grown deadly cold.

"What do you mean?"

"I've escaped from eight separate penal and clinical institutions," she said in a dry monotone. "I've been chased by security guards, cops, pimps, rapists, and Rottweilers. Before I was even sixteen years old, I'd been beaten unconscious, nearly run down by a car, and attacked by a lunatic with a baseball bat." Her voice lowered and grew in intensity. "So don't tell me that I don't know what's it's like to run for my life."

He stared, dumbfounded. She had always been evasive about the details of her past, limiting herself to cryptic references to a criminal history and a killing. He had always thought she was exaggerating, but now, seeing the lost look on her face, he knew she wasn't. In her own way, she did have combat experience. And she was as scarred as any veteran he'd ever met.

How had he not known this? The months they had spent together had been among the happiest and most intense of his life. With her, he had felt a deep connection, a shared understanding of life that seemed instinctual, almost preordained. Even now, in her presence, he still sensed it -- partly hidden, just out of reach, but there all the same. Yet at the same time, it appeared, she was also a complete stranger.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. I was just trying to help you."

"I don't want any help." She looked away. "You heard Adrian. You need to treat me just like any other operative on your team."

Fighting a growing lump in his throat, he reached out to stroke her face.

"You'll never be just any operative to me."

As his fingertips grazed her cheek, he saw it. Deep within her eyes, something fought its way toward the surface: a longing, a desperation, a need. It reached out to him, begged him to free it, even as she struggled to suppress it. Determined to make her fail, to make her give in to whatever she was feeling, he continued to caress her skin, brushing his hand through her hair, then trailing his knuckles lightly along her jaw.

In the end, however, she reasserted control, although he could see that the effort had weakened her. Her anger subsided, replaced by a look of sadness.

"You're the team leader. The success of the mission is your responsibility, and that has to come first." Her voice grew resigned. "Maybe Adrian was right. I should be on another team. I'm a distraction to you."

He sighed. This was going in circles, and at such a late hour, frankly, it exhausted him.

"Maybe you are a distraction," he admitted, too tired to argue any longer. "But you'd be even more of one on another team."

She frowned. "How so?"

"I'd be too worried to concentrate on my work. At least if you're on my team, I'll know what's happening to you."

She made an exasperated face. "Paul, you can't allow--"

"Look," he interrupted, "when we first met, I saw how well we worked together. We complement each other perfectly. Don't tell me you didn't see it, too."

She said nothing, but he could tell from the way she pressed her lips together into a tight line that she knew he was right.

"As soon as you build up some field experience, we're going to be unbeatable together." He looked her straight in the eye, daring her to argue. "And so I'm going to look after you, like it or not, to make sure you live long enough to gain that experience." He gave a wry smile. "Besides, you might as well get used to it, because there's nothing you can do to stop me."

She looked at him for a long time, with an expression he couldn't interpret -- not angry, not resentful, but not acquiescent, either. Just thoughtful. Then she turned away, put on the earmuffs and glasses, loaded another clip into her gun, and began firing again.

***

In an attempt to convey the impression of relaxed attentiveness, Lisa crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, hands folded and perched on her knee. She had managed to obtain the best seat at the table; the farthest from the door, it was away from attention and yet situated perfectly for careful observation. If only her luck would carry over to the rest of the briefing.

One by one, the others made their way into the room. First Walter, who winked at Lisa and sat -- as he always did for Adrian's briefings -- in the chair closest to the door. Then Patrick, who sprawled somewhere in the middle, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed his gum. Next, one of the two new team members: Brad, the Level One op six months out of training. Brad was skinny and red-haired -- one of those people who looked like he'd turn into one giant freckle if you left him out in the sun too long. To Lisa's dismay, he plopped into the seat right next to her and fixed her with a warm smile.

_Great. He thinks we're going to be buddies. Why do the puppydog new ones always latch onto me?_

The answer wasn't really all that much of a mystery. Who on the team looked the most approachable? Paul, the demanding team leader, always cursing and glaring? Hardly. Patrick, who spoke in two-word sentences and looked like his hobby was crushing beer cans against his forehead? No, not quite. Or Lisa: short, thin, mousy, and unthreatening. Bingo. Cursed by looking too meek and nice. It was the story of her life.

At least Brad had some mission experience, however, which was more than she could say for the next person who entered the room: Madeline, the transfer from Section Two. She was a Level Two, supposedly, but Paul acted like she was some fragile debutante who might faint if she suffered a paper cut -- he had threatened Lisa and Patrick with all sorts of dire consequences if they didn't help him keep her out of harm's way. Although if the rumors that had started circulating about Madeline were true -- rumors about a pretty bizarre background, almost too bizarre to be believed -- it might be Lisa and Patrick who needed the protection.

Lisa sat up in her seat to give the new arrival a full appraisal. On the one hand, she _did_ fit Paul's description. Hair perfect, full makeup -- for a briefing? Oh, please. She definitely looked to be the glamour queen type, not exactly used to scaling barbed wire fences in a torrential rain with a heavy backpack on. Then again, no one who saw Lisa would think she could do that either. Appearances didn't necessarily count for much in this place.

To Lisa's surprise, Madeline didn't take one of the several empty seats near Walter; instead, she sat between Patrick and Brad and then fastidiously smoothed out her skirt. It made the table seem somewhat lopsided.

_Poor Walter!_ thought Lisa, smiling to herself. _He's a pariah! After the briefing, I'll tease him about his aftershave being too strong._

Then she remembered. Walter knew Madeline from somewhere. And had acted quite strangely when Lisa asked him about her. Maybe those rumors were true, after all. Or maybe not, and Walter had just pissed her off with some lame come-on like he did with half the other women in Section. Good old Walter -- someone really needed to tell him he was getting a bit too old for his lady-killer routine. Not to mention that bandanas had gone out of style years ago. Lisa didn't quite have the heart to be the one to break it to him, however.

It was funny, though, how concerned Paul was about Madeline's welfare. It wasn't like him at all. He was of the school that believed new team members had to prove their worth under fire. If an operative showed some guts, then Paul would fight for him or her harder than any other team leader in Section -- but you always had to win him over first. Poor Brad, for example, hadn't merited any of Paul's attention. But then Brad didn't exactly look like Madeline, did he?

_Oh, God_, thought Lisa. _Is that what this is about?_

If so, they were in big, big trouble.

That train of thought halted abruptly as Adrian strode into the room, Paul close behind her. Hastily, Lisa returned to her 'paying rapt attention' posture. Patrick, an old hand at briefings, adopted a similar attitude, but shifted into it casually. Next to Lisa, Brad bolted up in his seat with unrestrained enthusiasm.

_Down, boy. Oh, well. He'll learn._

Paul slid into the seat next to Walter, and Adrian rounded the table to stand at the podium on the other side. As always, she swept her gaze across all of them before she began to speak.

"Good morning," she said brightly, eyes sparkling.

_Oh, Lord, she's got that look_, thought Lisa, growing apprehensive. _The one where she smells blood._

Almost invariably, that blood was Lisa's. Sitting inconspicuously at the end of the table probably wasn't going to cut it today. No, this time she would have to listen to every word and watch every nuance of Adrian's behavior. Adrian would test her when she least expected it: she always did, and Lisa always came up short somehow.

Adrian began the briefing, summarizing the highlights of the next day's mission. It seemed straightforward enough: yet another group that no one had ever heard of before, this time planning to blow up an unidentified target -- the objective was to storm their safe house and capture their leadership. Easy, except that they were lunatics who would love nothing better than to die as glorious martyrs in a gun battle. Preferably taking some imperialist pigs with them, of course. Lisa wanted to groan, although she didn't dare -- this was going to be a massacre. They'd be lucky to bring back even one of the leaders for interrogation. But Adrian wanted _all_ of them. What fun.

Finished, Adrian yielded to Walter, who briefed the group on the properties of the new tear gas launchers they would be using. Lisa tried to listen, but found herself increasingly distracted. Adrian hadn't even looked her direction yet; instead, her focus had been almost exclusively on Paul. It was extremely disconcerting. Adrian typically studied those whose abilities she doubted -- and Paul, unlike Lisa, had always been one of her favorites. Adrian's steady examination of him sent Lisa's sense of paranoia spinning out of control. Did Paul have a problem? Was there something about the mission they weren't being told? Were they all in abeyance? The possibilities were endless, and each one worse than the last.

When Walter finished, Adrian thanked him and once more swept her gaze along the table.

"Before I dismiss you," she said, "let me introduce you to your new team members."

The operatives shifted in their seats, turning to look at Madeline and Brad. Brad blushed and smiled; Madeline sat up attentively, but didn't change her expression.

"Brad is an expert in electronics. He'll be a great help to you, I'm sure," said Adrian.

The operatives nodded at him in acknowledgement.

"And Madeline comes to us after many successful years at Two," continued Adrian. "She has a wide range of skills that we'll be able to use." She paused, then added, "I hear her valentine expertise is particularly extraordinary. Why, she turned a senior KGB official into a double-agent just on the sheer strength of her seduction talent. Isn't that true, dear?"

As Adrian beamed, and Patrick sat up with sudden interest, Lisa watched Madeline's face go white.

Without even blinking, Madeline smiled. It looked slightly forced, but she managed to inject a surprising amount of warmth into it. "Yes, that's true," she answered.

Lisa stole a look at Paul. His face was bright red, and his jaw clenched.

_Ouch! So much for that budding romance._

So that's why Adrian had been watching him so intently during the briefing. She had obviously suspected the same thing Lisa had: that Paul's uncharacteristically protective attitude toward their new team member was based on some sort of romantic attraction. Well, you could always count on Adrian to throw cold water on such things at the first opportunity -- and in the most humiliating way possible. What a lovely welcome for the new transfer.

Her slap in the face delivered, Adrian took her leave, and the room filled with the sound of chairs scraping the floor. The last to exit, Lisa hurried to catch up with Madeline. Lisa touched her shoulder, and Madeline stopped and turned.

"So, welcome to the club," said Lisa.

"I'm sorry?" Madeline's tone was excruciatingly polite -- distant, wary, like someone unused to the idea of friendly overtures.

"The Punching Bag Club," Lisa said in a low voice. "It's a select group of people Adrian likes to abuse for no particular reason."

For a moment, there was no reaction. Then the two women exchanged a long look, first of mutual assessment, but slowly turning to understanding.

Finally, Madeline arched an eyebrow and gave an amused half-smile. "Should I be honored?"

"Oh, definitely." Lisa grinned. "We're very exclusive. Not just anyone gets in."

"Then I'm flattered."

Lisa held out her hand. "I'm Lisa. Initiated into the club almost seven years ago."

"Nice to meet you, Lisa," Madeline answered, shaking her hand.

Together, they began to walk away from the briefing room, heading toward the elevators that led to the residential quarters. They entered an open elevator, each pressed a button, and they rode in silence for a few moments.

"It's funny," Lisa mused, not certain if Madeline knew Adrian's motivations, and not sure if she should tell her if she didn't. "She usually doesn't go after someone right off the bat like that. You're getting special attention." She smiled sympathetically. "Lucky you."

"Lucky me." This time, Madeline didn't smile back.

Self-consciously, Lisa studied the numbers on the elevator panel. She was dying to ask Madeline more about herself -- to ask just what the hell she did over at Section Two, to find out if any of those rumors were true -- but she knew she shouldn't. How could she even start such a conversation? _So, Madeline, is it true that they called you the Voodoo Queen over at Two because your job was turning people into zombies?_ Oh, yeah. That would go over well.

No, she would have to contain her curiosity and wait. They had formed a bond, of sorts. Maybe, eventually, she would learn something more.

The door opened on Lisa's level. As she stepped out of the elevator, she looked back.

"You know," she said, "there's really only one way to deal with Adrian."

"Oh?"

"She plays favorites," Lisa explained. "Find one and get that person to defend you. She won't like you any better, but she might start leaving you alone."

***

Smoke billowed out thickly from the door in the cellar wall; it poured into the room, black, acrid and full of glowing embers.

"A tunnel. Jesus," said Brad. He bent over to peer inside and flapped his hand back and forth in a vain attempt to wave the smoke aside. "That's where they went. And set a fire behind them." He straightened up again with an expression of resignation. "We'll never catch them now."

According to the blueprints included with the mission profile, there was no tunnel. In fact, there was no cellar. But when the team burst into the house, guns drawn, they found no one on the ground floor. From the floor above, haphazard bursts of gunfire signaled that Patrick and Lisa had engaged their targets. The lower level, however, was strangely devoid of occupants, the only movement the swirling white clouds that sprayed from the tear gas canisters scattered across the glass-strewn floor.

It was Paul who spotted the door leading to the cellar, who led them charging downstairs, and who now took action.

"Team Two," he said into his comm unit, "hostiles made egress through an underground tunnel. Scan the perimeter in case they emerge aboveground. Team One in pursuit."

He looked at Madeline. "You stay here and guard the entrance. Once we confirm that there's an exit, go upstairs and provide backup to Lisa and Patrick."

She nodded gravely and tightened her grip around her gun.

Paul turned to Brad. "Follow me."

"In there?" Brad gaped at the dark plume that continued to flow from the entrance. "It's a barbecue!"

"Go," Paul ordered through gritted teeth.

"You're nuts!"

Paul lifted his gun and pointed it at Brad's face. "It's a barbecue or a bullet. Your choice."

As Brad hesitated, eyeing Paul as if he were a rabid animal, Madeline stepped into the tunnel. She yanked up her mask from where it had been dangling around her neck and hoped that it would filter smoke as well as the tear gas it was designed for. Once the mask was firmly in place, she began to run.

"What the hell are you doing?" Paul's voice came sharply through the transmitter in her ear.

"We don't have time to argue," she panted, her breathing muffled by the mask. "The targets are going to be long gone."

"Damn it, you wait for my order!" he shouted, causing the transmitter to squawk. There was a brief pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was still angry but more controlled. "Tell me where you are and what you see. I'll catch up as soon as I can."

Before she could proceed more than a few feet further, she heard a gunshot over her transmitter -- a burst so loud she flinched in pain. She slowed her pace to a walk, uncertain how to react.

"Paul?" she called out. "Are you under fire?"

"No."

"I heard shooting," she insisted. "Should I come back?"

"That was Brad," he said. "I cancelled him."

"You what?" She stopped moving, astonished.

"Insubordination during a mission is grounds for immediate cancellation at the discretion of the team leader. If I can't rely on him to follow orders, then he's in the way."

For a moment, she was too stunned to think clearly. Then, once again, she began to run. There was no time to reflect on what had just happened. In fact, perhaps that was the point -- Brad had tried to think, tried to argue, when he simply should have obeyed. She pushed the realization that she, too, had disobeyed orders out of her mind. There would be time enough to worry about that later.

"I'm turning right," she announced. "I can't see the fire yet, but the smoke is getting thicker."

Instead of a reply, she heard more shooting.

"Paul?"

"I've engaged hostiles. It's under control. Keep going."

The sound of gunfire continued, growing louder and more rapid -- with each shot, she winced. When she rounded the corner, the faint light from the doorway vanished, and she found herself in complete darkness. Darkness and silence, as the noise of the gun battle cut off abruptly.

"Paul, are you there?"

She heard static, but nothing more.

She tapped the transmitter.

Still nothing.

There was no reason to worry, she reassured herself. It was only interference by the walls of the tunnel. But it meant that now, she was alone. And blind.

Without a flashlight, she felt her way along the rough dirt wall, stumbling repeatedly on the uneven floor. The mask around her face was hot and suffocating, and didn't seem to be filtering the smoke much after all; she was drenched in sweat, coughing, gasping for air.

As she tripped and cursed to herself once more, she thought back to what she had been doing just one week before: sitting on the balcony of her Paris apartment, sipping aperitifs with a charming gentleman acquaintance, oblivious to the fact that her life was about to be turned upside-down. She never would have imagined that now she would be staggering alone, through the dark, on her way to be incinerated -- or, if she escaped that, to confront a gang of armed and desperate terrorists.

The past five days had not been adequate preparation for this moment. She had spent that time in a state of complete disorientation, barely able to eat or sleep: in shock at having her world uprooted so suddenly; in terror at being thrown upon the mercy of Adrian; overjoyed -- but apprehensive -- at finding herself reunited with Paul; and, despite her attempts at bravado, petrified that, as Paul had warned, she simply wasn't ready for a real mission.

Her fingers felt the wall curve around another corner. As she followed it, her vision returned, brought back by an orange light that glowed ominously through the heavy shroud of smoke. She halted, grimacing in pain as she collided with a searing blast of heat, and stared ahead in despair. Before her was a bonfire of debris, piled several feet high, blazing across the full width of the tunnel. She inched ahead cautiously, and the heat nearly blistered her skin; under her mask, the air seemed to disappear altogether.

The fire was wide -- intimidatingly so -- but not particularly deep. Indeed, the debris pile was low enough that she could plausibly jump it.

She gazed into the fire for a few seconds -- seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity, as the flames rippled and flared, and the air itself shimmered with their heat. The blaze seemed to melt away all her stray thoughts: Adrian, Paul, even her own mortality, none of that mattered. There was no time to be afraid, no time to do anything but concentrate on the immediate goal. She felt herself slip into a mental focus -- a clarity so intense that it was both soothing and thrilling.

She took a running start and dove, as high as she could, over the debris and through the flames. The heat was excruciating, like a furnace blast of pain, but then she landed -- hard -- on the dirt floor behind the fire and ducked into a roll. When she was upright once again, she inspected herself. Her hair and clothing were singed, the arm she had landed on most likely fractured -- but she was functional.

She scrambled up and ran, stopping several yards later when she reached a door directly ahead. Readying her gun for what might be on the other side, she grasped the doorknob -- hissing in pain at the scorch of hot metal -- and turned it.

Locked.

She twisted the doorknob harder -- then, with a sharp wave of panic, began to kick and hurl her weight against the door. Her efforts had no effect. The door remained solidly closed; the intensity of the heat, broiling from the fire only yards behind her, started to overcome her ability to reason. On instinct, she fired three shots into the door. This, finally, splintered it enough to allow her to force her way through. On the other side, the tunnel ended, but a ladder, bathed in daylight, led straight up.

She pulled herself up the ladder, the stabbing pains in her arm bringing tears to her eyes. When she reached the top, she could see the bright blue of the sky, filtered through a metal grate that she shoved impatiently aside.

She emerged through what appeared to be a storm drain alongside a road. Gasping, she tore off her mask and looked at her surroundings, just in time to see a car pull away from the roadside in front of her. She gave chase, but it quickly picked up speed -- as it did, one of its passengers stuck a gun out the window and fired in her direction.

The shots hit the ground several feet away, kicking up puffs of dust. Instinctively, she fell into a crouch and returned fire. She didn't hear it when the tire blew out, but she saw the car swerve out of control and slam into a stone wall. Still crouching, she watched for several moments, waiting for signs of movement inside the wrecked auto. When she saw nothing, she rose and began to walk toward the vehicle.

She approached the car cautiously until she saw the extent of the injuries: one passenger unconscious, blood pouring down his face; the driver and other passengers disoriented and groaning in pain. She held them there at gunpoint until members of Team Two reached her moments later.

As Team Two pulled the captives from the wreckage, she walked away unsteadily. Her heart pounded with such violence that it left her dizzy with elation. Looking at the vanquished enemy, she felt energized, as if she could sprint all the way back to Section. The sense of victory was overwhelming, addictive, like a drug. No, it was better than a drug -- no drug could possibly feel that good.

She jumped, startled, when she heard her transmitter burst back into life.

"Madeline? Report," Paul called.

She smiled. "Targets acquired."


	3. Chapter 3

Muscles tensed, Paul climbed the steps to Adrian's office; he trod heavily, as if each clank of boots on the stairway's metal grating could stomp out his anger. Inadequate intel, a useless team member: combined, they had led to chaos. There was nothing Paul despised more than chaos. Except for failure. And in his experience, the former tended to lead to the latter.

As he reached the top of the steps, he paused. Normally, the echo of his footsteps announced his arrival -- recognizing his gait, Adrian would call for him to enter. This time, however, there was no such greeting; instead, her voice was low and inaudible, but suffused with an odd, angry pitch. Curious, he felt his temper dissipate. He peered through the open doorway; inside, Adrian appeared engrossed in a telephone conversation. Judging by the frown that creased her face, it wasn't a pleasant chat.

Glancing up, she spotted Paul and gestured distractedly for him to come in. He took a seat and waited.

"Don't give in, George," she said, her voice sharp. "Just because Phillip throws a tantrum doesn't make it our priority."

Paul didn't recognize the name Phillip, but the mention of George made him pay closer attention. Despite Adrian's hints that Paul was being groomed as her successor, she kept him well in the dark regarding a great many things. Especially about the operations of the other Sections, where she allowed George to reign. Section One alone had been Paul's universe, and moments like this -- moments that reminded him how insignificant he really still was -- made him chafe at the limitation.

"My decision is final," she continued. "I'm not afraid of him. And you shouldn't be, either." A wave of irritation washed across her face. "You really do need to grow more of a spine, my dear."

Paul repressed a smirk. George hadn't darkened Section One's corridors for several years, but his absence hadn't softened Paul's disdain for the man. George was a toady and a sycophant, and it gave Paul a perverse twinge of pleasure to hear Adrian abuse him.

"Of course I'll let you know." She scowled. "When have I not? Yes, of course. Goodbye." She hung up brusquely and sat back in her chair. After an uncomfortably long time spent staring into space, she returned her attention to Paul. The shift in focus didn't seem to improve her mood. "You're here to debrief on Vienna?"

He nodded. "Six captives and eight fatalities, including one of ours."

"I'm well aware of what happened," she snapped. "I was monitoring the radio traffic."

"I see," he said warily. Navigating the shoals of her temper without foundering required a sensitivity that went against his natural instincts. He'd learned the hard way that the safest course was to remain noncommittal as long as possible.

"You seemed to have some difficulty controlling your team," she observed in a sweet-and-sour tone that was obviously intended to goad him. "Care to elaborate?"

Wonderful. Trust Adrian to zero in immediately on precisely the topic he had been dreading the most. "Brad refused to follow orders," he said, shrugging because he refused to concede that he should care. "I had no choice. Besides, it's no great loss, as far as I can tell."

"Charles never had any problems getting Brad to follow orders." She arched an eyebrow in mocking reproach. "Perhaps it's the way you give them."

Oh, bullshit. Charles never took any risks with his team: that's why he didn't have any discipline problems. And that's why Adrian always turned to Paul to handle the toughest assignments. She knew that, so why was she throwing Mr. Paint-By-Numbers in his face?

"As for Madeline," she went on, "she apparently thought so little of your leadership that she took over the mission herself."

"She's used to working solo," he interjected hastily. "If you give me more time with her I can solve that problem."

"Oh, the problem isn't with her. She made the right call. The problem is with _you_."

She rose to her feet. Circling her desk, she took a stance so close to his chair that he had to crane his neck to look at her. She stared down at him, somehow managing to appear both fragile and powerful, like a bird of prey sizing up a tasty morsel of rabbit.

"As soon as Brad refused to comply with your commands," she said sternly, "you should have sent in Madeline instead. Your failure to do so concerns me greatly."

"I was trying to--"

"I know what you were trying to do," she interrupted. She sighed, and her anger seemed to give way to a sad indulgence. "Madeline saved your life several years ago. It's natural for you to feel you owe her a debt. But you must set that feeling aside. It does both of you a disservice."

She had completely misread him. But there was no point trying to convince her of that. He'd known her long enough to recognize when she'd made up her mind, and he knew no amount of explanation would sway her. So he simply nodded. There would be other times to stand his ground.

She examined him for a moment. When she seemed satisfied with his acquiescence, she returned to her seat on the other side of the desk. "As for the other members of your team, they're entirely too trigger-happy. I wanted captives, not cadavers."

"Our intel was inaccurate. The targets were much more heavily armed than we were led to believe, and the blueprint of the building was completely wrong. We did well under the circumstances."

"Doing well isn't good enough. I expect excellence, and you fell far short of it. If the intel is flawed, you improvise. Even the freshest recruits know that."

He ignored the jab, clasping his hands together on his lap so hard he could feel the pulse throb in his fingertips. He could keep his mouth shut as long as he needed to, but he was going to need a workout on the heavy bag when he got the hell out of this office.

After what seemed like a lifetime, she finally relaxed and smiled -- a sign that she was finished with her critique. Her tone lost its sarcastic edge and became crisp and businesslike. "Please tell Madeline that I wish to see her at six tomorrow morning. I'm pleased with her performance so far and would like to give her a new assignment."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And remind her to be prompt. I have enough demands on my time without being kept waiting."

"Of course."

"By the way," she added, flipping through a stack of papers on her desk, "I'm revoking the downtime scheduled for Lisa and Patrick. Perhaps if they suffer personal consequences for their carelessness they'll be more conscientious next time." She looked up from the papers with a regretful expression. "I hate to treat them like children, but when all else fails...."

"I'll tell them," he answered, groaning inwardly. Discipline was easy for Adrian to dispense, but it was Paul who would have to deal with the effects of their resentment.

"As for you, I'll treat this lapse as an anomaly. I trust it won't happen again." She smiled at him brightly. "That will be all."

He stared at her, unable to bring himself to answer. A lapse? Maybe -- but not by him, and not by his team, he wanted to say. But knowing better, he stood, turned, and left.

***

"Welcome back, kiddo," Walter said to Lisa as she limped into Munitions. "Glad to see you in one piece." He grinned. "Oh, and you too, Patrick, though you aren't _quite_ as pretty."

Patrick grunted and dumped his gun, mask, and comm. unit on the table. Lisa smiled wanly at Walter's joke and did the same.

"We were lucky," she said. "They had us completely outnumbered this time."

"Bad intel," added Patrick with a scowl. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw in a gesture of irritation. "Again."

"Too bad Brad wasn't so lucky, though," said Walter. He gave them a knowing look. "Did Paul really cancel the poor bastard on the spot?"

Patrick shrugged. "Guess so."

"It happens," Lisa said uneasily. She wasn't entirely certain what had happened in the cellar of the safehouse, but as far as she was concerned, the less she knew the better. Besides, it was bad luck to talk too much about the dead, especially when the body was virtually still warm.

She could tell Walter wasn't satisfied with the brush-off by the conspiratorial gleam that lit up his face. Fortunately, before he could launch himself into full-on "Tell Uncle Walter" mode, a noise near the entrance interrupted the conversation. It was Madeline; she walked in slowly, her equipment gathered awkwardly in one arm.

As she dropped the equipment on the table, Walter watched her in silence. She looked up, and the two of them stared at each other -- a moment of discomfort broken only when Walter cleared his throat.

"I hear you kicked some bad guy butt out there," he said, his voice cautious but friendly.

Whatever Madeline was expecting from him, it clearly wasn't that. She blinked. Then she smiled -- a bright smile, one that lit up her entire face. It transformed her, instantaneously, into an entirely different person.

"I guess so, Walter," she answered, still smiling.

"You done good," he said. "And since I forgot to mention it before, welcome aboard."

"Thank you."

Lisa snuck a look at Patrick. He gave her a subtle nod of approval.

"Hey, Madeline," said Lisa, "Patrick and I have a kind of tradition of going out to dinner after missions. Would you like to join us? It's nothing fancy -- just cheap food, cheap entertainment and even cheaper drinks."

Madeline looked both surprised and grateful. "I'd like that."

"We'll stop by your quarters at six, then."

"All right," she answered. "Will Paul be joining us?" Her tone was carefully casual -- too much so, in fact.

A snort of laughter escaped from Patrick.

"Uh, these dinners are just for the grunts," Lisa said, shooting a glare at Patrick. "It's not that we don't get along with him, but, well, he's the boss. Having him along would kind of inhibit the celebration, you know?"

"I see," Madeline said. "I was just curious."

Lisa ignored Patrick's smirk and told herself to smack him later. "No problem. We'll see you at six."

***

For the third time in a row, the gear in Charles's van hadn't been racked in the optimal order. For the third time, this had caused several seconds' delay during egress. And so, for the third time, Charles marched toward Munitions to complain about the matter.

Obviously, the weapons master didn't consider Charles's instructions a priority; no doubt the man was too busy making googly eyes at whatever insipid female happened to flash cleavage his way to take care to outfit the vans adequately. But Charles had reached the limit of his tolerance, and if Walter thought Charles could be ignored, he was mistaken.

Lots of people made that mistake about Charles. They assumed that because he didn't wave his arms about like an enraged gorilla, he could be pushed around. Such people underestimated him. Persistence was the key. He would haunt Munitions -- daily if need be -- until Walter gave in, if only just to be rid of him. And Walter _would_ give in. Most people did, eventually, once Charles set his mind on something.

At the entrance to Munitions, a pair of Paul's team members barreled out like schoolchildren racing to a playground. Charles successfully sidestepped them; in his haste, however, he didn't see the dark-haired woman following behind them until he collided into her.

She flinched noticeably and clutched at her arm with her other hand.

"Oh, I'm very sorry," he said. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing," she replied.

Her tone was dismissive, and her expression unconcerned, but she continued to hold the arm protectively.

"It looks like more than nothing to me," said Charles. "Haven't you been to Medlab?"

"Not yet. We just returned from a mission."

"I suggest you head straight there. Foolish to ignore injuries, you know."

She nodded, but then an odd, almost embarrassed expression crept across her face.

"Actually, I'm not sure where it is."

He raised his eyebrows in incredulity. "Pardon?"

"I've only been here a week," she said, then added with a wry note, "It wasn't on my introductory tour."

Charles drew in a sharp breath of disapproval. "Then your team leader should have taken you. Tell me who he is, and I'll see to it he's reprimanded."

To his surprise, he thought he detected a trace of mirth lift the corners of her mouth.

"I didn't mention my injury to my team leader," she said. "So I don't believe a reprimand will be necessary. Although I appreciate the concern."

She didn't mention it to her team leader? He glanced across the room toward Walter, who just shrugged uselessly, as if he couldn't be bothered to wonder about people's behavior, no matter how strange.

The woman seemed to notice this exchange. "We were busy," she explained. "It didn't seem critical."

Charles laughed. How refreshingly stoic. Quite a contrast to the typical operative, who would scurry to Medlab with the slightest scratch, pleading for medical downtime.

"Interesting perspective," he said approvingly. "Admirable, in a stiff upper lip sort of way. Always thought that was supposed to be my country's specialty."

She didn't answer, but her smile broadened. It lit her eyes with a rich, engaging warmth. Suddenly, lecturing Walter about mission vans didn't seem like such a priority.

"Why don't you follow me?" invited Charles, gesturing toward the door, "Let's get that arm looked at properly, shall we?"

"That's not necessary. I'll find my own way."

"Nonsense. I insist."

She inclined her head in agreement, and Charles led the way down the corridor. As he walked, stealing occasional glances at the woman beside him, he frowned to himself. She had only been in Section a week? That didn't make sense.

"You haven't been here long enough to know where Medlab is, but you're going out on missions?"

"Yes."

He waited, but she volunteered nothing further. The look on her face was difficult to read, despite the startling expressiveness of her eyes. Catching himself staring, he forced himself to look away -- even then, he felt her dark gaze upon him, and the blood rushed to his face in a self-conscious reaction.

"I don't recall seeing you as a recruit at all, in fact," he remarked, unable to restrain his curiosity. "Did you spend the entire time at the Farm?"

"I finished my training ten years ago. For you to remember me as a recruit, you'd need a very good memory."

"Ten years ago?" His puzzlement grew, until the answer dawned on him. "Oh, of course."

"Of course?" she repeated. Something shifted in her tone; it was as if a window cracked open and let in a chilly autumn draft.

"You're the transfer from Section Two everyone's been talking about," he said, and then immediately wanted to eat his words. She didn't need to know she had been gossiped about.

"Have they now?" she asked, the chill turning into frost. "And just what have they been saying?"

He felt a burgeoning discomfort, because in truth, none of it was good. People called her George's protégé, Adrian's new enforcer: she was viewed with suspicion and dread, her arrival seen as a harbinger of harsh new punishments.

The rumors had originated with Jules, the head of Comm. Proud of his wide-ranging sources, Jules had delighted in elaborating on the gruesome details of the new transfer's undercover mission, provoking rampant speculation as to the reason for her transfer. From Jules, the story had passed from operative to operative, becoming increasingly lurid with each telling. The stories had grown to such proportions that Charles had expected a virtual Mengele to arrive at Section One's doorstep.

The person walking beside him, however, didn't fit such a grim image. She was young -- quite young, in fact, which startled him. And elegant, even covered in what looked like soot and grime from her mission. As for her manner, he sensed a hint of a dry wit, mixed with a stubborn independence, all hidden beneath a graceful facade. Not a monster at all

Then there was the matter of her going on missions. According to the rumor mill, she had been transferred in order to take over internal discipline, not to risk her own life in the field like other operatives. In fact, with her background, sending her on missions made no sense whatsoever. It was all very mysterious.

Then again, Charles liked mysteries.

"Nothing they've been saying does you justice," he said. And he meant it.

The chill in her manner vanished, and she smiled in a way that made his face flush hot.

"Here you are," he said, indicating toward the entrance to Medlab. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I'm Charles, by the way. Senior Team Leader."

"Pleased to meet you, Charles. I'm Madeline. I'd shake your hand, but...." She glanced toward her arm.

"Of course." He stood there, wishing there were a reason to accompany her inside, until the awkwardness of waiting became too much to bear. "If you ever need anything else, don't hesitate to come to me."

***

"Can I ask you a question?" Lisa asked, leaning over and placing a hand on Madeline's arm.

She nearly had to yell to be heard over the distorted thump of music from the bar's enormous loudspeakers. Her eyes were bloodshot, perhaps from the haze of cigarette smoke in the room, perhaps from the lateness of the hour, or perhaps from the vodka shots she kept downing. But even bloodshot, they held a bright kind of innocence -- it would have been amusing if it weren't so disarming.

Madeline picked up her drink and sipped it. It was a little awkward with the cast on her forearm, but she managed to ignore the discomfort. "Go ahead."

"How do you know Walter?"

Madeline set her glass down. For someone who was drunk, Lisa picked a shrewd question to ask. Perhaps she wasn't as naive as she appeared.

"What do you mean?" Madeline asked, as noncommittally as possible.

"He says he met you before you transferred here. But he acted kind of funny about it."

Did he indeed? Madeline studied her drink; a slice of lime floated in it, forlorn and half-submerged. Reflexively, she picked up a toothpick and pushed the lime below the liquid's surface. When it bobbed back up, she pierced it, forcing it to the bottom of the glass as if it were an enemy to be drowned.

How did she know Walter? As a spy for Adrian who had nearly caused Madeline to be cancelled. And yet who, out of kindness, had also chosen to keep Madeline's biggest secret to himself.

She understood the spying. It was his job. It was the kindness that was unforgivable.

Madeline looked back up at Lisa. The other woman was intoxicated enough that if Madeline told her the whole story, she likely wouldn't remember a thing afterwards. It made her the perfect confidante. Madeline could speak without fear, could finally unburden herself of all the hurt and anger she had kept to herself the past three years: feelings that had reemerged upon her transfer to Section One, like fresh blood flowing from a broken scab.

Looking into Lisa's friendly face, it was almost tempting. Almost. But if there was one thing that Madeline prided herself on being able to do, it was resisting temptation.

"We met at an inter-Sectional meeting a few years ago," Madeline said. That was true enough, but utterly meaningless.

"That's all?"

"More or less. Why?"

"Oh, I figured he must have hit on you and made an ass of himself."

Madeline laughed, relieved that Lisa was on the wrong track, and amused at the insight into Walter's character. "Good Lord, no."

Lisa grinned. "Good. He can be a bit much sometimes, but he doesn't mean any harm." She swallowed the dregs of her drink with a slurping sound and twisted around in her seat in a fruitless search for a waiter. When she didn't find one, she settled for chewing on an olive. "Paul, on the other hand, is a whole other story."

Madeline stiffened and cast her gaze about the room for a distraction -- any distraction -- to use as an excuse to cut Lisa off. But it was hopeless. Lisa had the enthusiastic expression of someone who'd been pining for a chance to indulge in sisterly gossip, and it was clear she wasn't about to be derailed once she got going.

"Yeah, Paul," Lisa said, "he's kind of an asshole. I mean, he's okay as a team leader, but I wouldn't ever want to go out with him. Not that he'd ever ask me, because I'm not his type, you know, but if I were, and he did, I wouldn't, because, oh, God, I've lost track of my point." She frowned. "Oh, yes. Asshole. He can really be one sometimes." She reached across the table, stole the olive from the drink Patrick had left behind, and popped it in her mouth. "There was this girl," she said, chewing, "Juliana, or Juliette, or something -- who caught him two-timing her. She got so mad she threw a _shoe_ at him -- right in the middle of Section! It was pretty funny, except I heard she got transferred to Libya afterwards, so maybe it wasn't very funny at all."

That was quite enough. Madeline seized the moment to change the subject. If Lisa wanted to gossip so badly, she could do so about herself.

"So, what about you and Patrick?"

Lisa blinked in confusion and looked around the room. Patrick, who had wandered off in search of a toilet, was nowhere in sight.

"Uh, what do you mean?"

"You seem close."

Lisa raised her eyebrows in the excessively dramatic way of the thoroughly inebriated. "Oh, jeeze, no, it's nothing like that! We were recruits together. We've been on the same teams since forever. We're _buddies_, you know?"

Madeline suppressed a smile. Lisa's reaction was endearing, in a teenaged sort of way. How could someone survive in Section and still come across as so young?

"All right. No romance with Patrick. Anyone else?"

"No, no, that just leads to trouble. It was thanks to an idiotic boyfriend that I got recruited in the first place. Completely ruined my life." She rolled her eyes. "If he weren't already dead, I'd kill him." Seemingly out of nowhere, her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with her sleeve and laughed bitterly. "I still miss the stupid piece of shit. How pathetic is that?"

Before Madeline could respond, Patrick slumped into the empty chair at their table. He inspected their glasses gravely and announced, "Time for a new round."


	4. Chapter 4

Cigarette in hand, Paul stalked toward Madeline's quarters. It was one in the morning, and she had been gone all evening -- out celebrating with her fellow team members, apparently, all of them oblivious to the fact that Adrian considered the mission a failure. He had checked for her return three times already, and with each hour that passed, he had grown steadily angrier.

He arrived at the door and jabbed at the buzzer with his thumb. If she didn't answer this time, he intended to bypass the security code and go in anyway. He would sit up all night waiting for her if he had to.

Those thoughts vanished when the door opened. She stood there, looking half-asleep and surprised to see him, her hair tangled in a dark mass that hung down against the rich maroon of her robe. She leaned on one arm against the doorframe. Oddly, the other was bound in a cast.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing serious."

He took a long drag on his cigarette. The anger coiled in his muscles; it seemed to warp the space around him as if he were emanating waves of heat. Watching him, however, she merely looked amused.

"Why don't you come in?" she said, arching an eyebrow.

She opened the door wider, and he pushed past her into the quarters. The room was sparsely furnished and dimly lit; a single table lamp provided the sole illumination. In her week at Section, she seemed to have collected no personal effects -- the coat tossed across the back of a chair was the only sign that anyone lived there.

He heard her close the door and he turned around to face her.

"Adrian was very happy with your performance on the mission," he said.

A look of mild surprise filled her face.

"But I wasn't," he added sharply.

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

He started to pace. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he inhaled deeply, savoring the dry heat that filled his lungs. As he exhaled again, a stream of smoke swirled lazily into the air, clouding the already faint light of the room. Stepping through the smoke, he scowled at her.

"You disobeyed orders, undermined my authority, and placed the mission objectives in jeopardy."

She looked away so quickly that he couldn't be sure of her expression -- but he could have sworn that he saw a flash of guilt.

"I ordered you to guard the door," he continued. "Just where did you think you got the authority to countermand those orders?"

She turned back toward him with a look of almost serene confidence. There wasn't a trace of guilt in her face -- he must have imagined it, misled by shadows and wishful thinking.

"Brad was causing a problem," she answered coolly. "I solved it for you."

Her unruffled manner only aggravated him more. "You don't solve any problems unless I tell you to," he growled. "Is that clear?"

Her expression changed from calm to cold. "Yes, that's clear."

He glanced around the room, searching for someplace to tap the ash that hung precariously from the end of his cigarette. Seeing nothing and losing patience, he flicked it on the floor. She watched him with a look of disgust.

"Why do you think I ordered you to stay behind instead of Brad?"

"You think I'm inexperienced."

"Wrong."

By the way the color drained from her cheeks, he saw that she was caught off guard by his answer. Good. It served her right.

"Believe it or not," he said caustically, "I had a legitimate, mission-related reason for what I did. But I don't suppose you're interested in my telling you what that was, since you already know all the answers."

For the first time during the conversation, she began to look uncertain. "Go ahead."

He stopped pacing and took a stance directly in front of her. "There was a very strong probability that the tunnel was a trap. Someone had to stay behind and make sure that there was at least one viable exit. I chose you because I thought you were more reliable than Brad. I didn't trust him to tie his shoe unsupervised. But I _did_ trust you."

"I see." She looked down at the floor.

"When you decided to start inventing your own orders, I was just about to cancel Brad and go into the tunnel myself." He waited until she met his eye again. "And if you're wondering why me and not you, it's very simple. I'm faster than you and have a hell of a lot more experience dealing with ambushes -- which it easily could have been, you know."

She held his gaze, but her expression was softer -- regretful, perhaps even chastened, although he couldn't quite be sure.

He took a step closer to her, less than a foot away, and gave her his hardest stare. "Frankly, it's sheer luck that you caught up with them in time. Another few seconds and it would have been too late."

She blinked, but didn't back away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to second-guess you. It won't happen again." While her words were apologetic, her voice was steady, and she looked him in the eye as she spoke.

He stared at her, stung with disappointment. He had hoped for real understanding, not mouthed words of regret.

"Back in the Ukraine," he said, "I followed your instructions without question -- even when they seemed completely insane -- because I trusted your judgment. But apparently you don't respect me enough to do the same." He shrugged, trying to hide his bitterness. "If that's how you feel, so be it. But as long as I'm your team leader, you _will_ obey my orders, like it or not."

He tossed his cigarette to the floor. Grinding it out with his shoe, he turned to leave.

"Paul, wait."

He halted at the door, but kept his back toward her.

"I _do_ respect you and admire you," she said. "Don't ever doubt that."

He turned around. "Then why haven't you been acting like it?"

She frowned and opened her mouth to answer, but before she could do so he spoke again.

"Ever since you got here, you've been avoiding me or pushing me away. What am I supposed to think?"

His words hung awkwardly between them; the silence that followed was palpable.

Her expression subtly tightened. "This hasn't been easy for me," she said slowly, reluctantly, as if the words tasted so sour she could barely stand to voice them. "You have no idea what it's like living undercover. Lying about who you are to every single person you meet. Having no one to trust but yourself. Being utterly isolated for years at a time. You don't know how hard that is." She walked over to a chair and sat down, fixing her gaze on a wall. "I spent ten years living like that. It became a habit. It became _normal_." She looked back up at him, and this time she was the one whose anger permeated the air. "It's not something you can stop, just like that. Even if you want to."

Paul knelt by her chair and grasped her by the shoulder. Now, he could see past the surface anger -- beneath it, no longer hidden, was a deep pool of hurt, loneliness, and fear. The realization sickened him. He had been so caught up in his own desires, in his own disappointment, that he hadn't even considered her situation. She had needed him, all this time -- not for the things he had offered, like training, advice, or protection, but rather for simple companionship and reassurance. Being who she was, she hadn't been able to ask him; being who he was, he hadn't been able to see it. Now, he could only hope that it wasn't too late -- that he could still give her what she needed, and that she could still accept it.

He outlined her jaw with his fingertip; she breathed in deeply, pupils dilating in response to his touch. As he felt her respond, he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. Almost instantly, she began to yield beneath him, her lips delicate along his mouth, the sensations soft and warm. He knew, then, that he had no reason to fear -- it wasn't too late. Not for either of them.

***

As Paul's kiss deepened, Madeline struggled to maintain her equilibrium. She had thought that she had long ago left behind old memories, that her feelings for him were beyond recovery. But now, the sensation of his lips upon hers was just as she remembered it, and everything rushed back to her in vivid clarity. With a single embrace, it was as if time had fallen away -- as if she had been frozen and only now revived.

She placed her hand against the side of his face, her fingers on his temple, her palm cupping his cheekbone and jaw. He ran his hands along her body, first through her robe, then slipping underneath the fabric to stroke her bare shoulders and finger the straps of her nightgown. She couldn't help but gasp, almost overwhelmed by the feeling of his skin on hers, by a desire long suppressed but now awakened. Not simply desire for the touch of a man -- that she had had, when it suited her -- but for _his_ touch, and what it conveyed. She had almost forgotten what it was like to connect with someone for any reason other than lust or boredom, or that such a connection was even possible. Now, she craved it, was poised to give into it completely -- until, unexpectedly, he pulled away, his mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and then rising awkwardly to his feet. "I can't stay like this anymore."

"What?"

He laughed. "On my knees. That hard floor was killing me." He chuckled again. "Why, what did you think I meant?"

"Nothing." She forced a smile.

His smile grew into more of a smirk. "You had an awfully shocked expression for someone who wasn't thinking anything. A little like someone who was afraid I was going to just walk off and leave."

She laughed, trying to hide her embarrassment. Her face must have given away her disappointment, which in turn revealed how much she had wanted him. She could tell by his smug expression that he had seen it, that he recognized how much power he really had over her, and that he relished seeing her reaction.

She took a deep breath and collected herself mentally. She had been about to plunge off the edge of a precipice -- had even wanted to, had yearned for the loss of control that it implied. But she could not allow that to happen. She would reassert control, then, by taking the initiative, by deflection, by shifting the focus of their interactions to her power over him -- a power that was safe, because she understood it. She would be with him because she chose to, not because she needed it; she would be with him on her terms, not his.

She got up from the chair and slowly walked over to him, then she slid her hand up his chest and traced light circles across it.

"I wasn't afraid of anything," she said teasingly, her voice low, almost a whisper. "After all, you wouldn't _dare_ walk away from me."

She studied his expression. The smugness had faded, replaced by a more straightforward amusement. That was better, but not enough.

As she continued stroking him, she felt the rise and fall of his chest through the crispness of his shirt. She took a step backwards and looked him up and down languorously, possessively, admiring the leanness of his form. Then she shrugged the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. When his mouth twitched and his gaze wandered across her body, she knew she had him under her control -- that the need, now, was his, not hers.

She backed out of his reach and laughed, deep in her throat, as she led him around a corner to the small alcove that hid the bed. She sat on the end and waited for him to join her.

"Is this better than kneeling on the floor?"

"Much."

She leaned over and kissed him again, this time aggressively. He responded in kind; he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing and pulling her against him. She reached up to begin unbuttoning his shirt, but, to her frustration, fumbled, the cast hindering her movements.

She laughed. "I don't seem to be able to do this."

"Allow me."

He sat back and pulled off his clothes while she watched. His movements were lithe and quick, like a predator -- they had a certain dangerous quality to them, an almost threatening determination. He tossed the clothes to the floor, then reached over and pulled her nightgown off over her head. Before she could move again, he pushed her backwards, falling on top of her and kissing her hungrily.

He covered her with his warmth and enfolded her in the firmness of his muscles; she breathed in his scent, tasted his skin, yielded to the pressure of his body against hers. His touch was alternately demanding and delicate: he seized her hair, pulling it to bare her neck, then brushed along the pulsing jugular with light kisses; he shoved her shoulders down against the mattress, then gently drew his tongue down her chest. She groaned and shifted beneath him, unable to think clearly, except to realize that she no longer seemed in control.

Subtly, gradually, the power had shifted again in his favor. Once again, she needed and craved him, responded to his initiative, rather than he to hers. Trying to lessen the strength of her reaction, she closed her eyes and concentrated on pure physical sensation, telling herself that what she felt was simple arousal. For a time, it worked -- with her eyes closed, he could be anyone, just a means to a self-gratifying end. But when she felt him sink into her, she forgot herself and opened her eyes. Above her, the first thing she saw was his eyes: sharp, steel-blue, and glittering. They looked into her, pierced straight through her, and, with a look of silent understanding, banished all notions of power altogether. In that look, he told her that he had been struggling with the same need, the same weakness as she -- and he too had lost.

In truth, there was no control for either of them. To her surprise, she no longer cared.


	5. Chapter 5

Paul shifted sleepily, burrowing against the warm back next to him. Yawning, he drew the covers up and prepared to drift off once again, but then remembered where he was. He opened his eyes, suddenly alert.

Madeline lay sound asleep next to him, the light of the lamp from around the corner outlining her form in its diffused warmth. He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her, and squinted to read the clock on the bedside table. Four-thirty in the morning -- too early for him to have enough rest, but too late to go back to sleep. With a sigh, he pulled up a pillow and leaned back against the headboard. He could allow her a half hour longer before he woke her -- in the meantime, he would wait.

He watched Madeline sleep for several minutes. Her hair was spread haphazardly across her pillow, long dark strands tangling and curling against the pale blue fabric. Her breathing was steady and rhythmic, punctuated with occasional small sighs; her expression was soft, relaxed -- even vulnerable. He fought the urge to gather her in his arms, to hold her close to him while she unknowingly showed that side of herself that she hid so thoroughly while awake.

Years before, he had sometimes stayed up all night just to watch her. He had noticed, then, her frequent nightmares. When they came upon her, she tensed and thrashed to and fro, fighting off whatever enemies confronted her. The first few times, he had made the mistake of waking her, only for her to march off the bathroom and lock herself in, refusing to tell him what was the matter. Later, he simply stroked her face -- almost instantly, she would relax, the nightmares seemingly vanquished. He never told her that he did this; he knew that it would only anger and embarrass her. But it gave him a sad kind of satisfaction: he couldn't protect her from real-world dangers, but at least he could banish the imaginary ones.

This time, however, she slept quietly. So he contented himself with threading his fingers through the ends of her hair, turning them in idle circles, while his mind wandered back to Section.

Adrian had given him a punishing schedule: three more missions that month, at least. The first two would work, theoretically, with a four-person team, but the last, Tripoli, needed five. Which meant that he needed a replacement for Brad. Damn him -- why couldn't he have been competent? And damn Adrian for assigning Brad to him. She could have just left the nitwit on Charles's team, where, according to her, he seemed to be doing just fine.

Then the realization hit him. Brad was such a moron, he _couldn't_ have been doing fine with Charles. Not unless Charles had been covering up for him. He pondered the thought for a moment -- would Charles have done something so foolish? It seemed pointless. Brad wasn't salvageable, and Charles was experienced enough to know that. Paul was ready to dismiss the idea, when he sat up, stung into anger. Of course. Charles wouldn't have been able to hide Brad's problems indefinitely, wouldn't have had any motive to do so. But he could have done it long enough to buy time -- time enough to convince Adrian to make the transfer, so that when Brad finally self-destructed it would be on someone else's team. On someone else's team, marring someone else's record.

Typical underhanded Charles. Paul had seen it time and time again. While Charles loved to play Mr. Nice Guy, underneath he was just as interested in covering his ass as anyone else. But unlike Paul, who wore his self-interest proudly and made no pretense of being anyone's benefactor, Charles cultivated this air of solicitous concern, of kindly interest in the welfare of his operatives -- even as he allowed them to die. Or shunted them off to someone else. God forbid that someone incompetent might blemish Charles's precious perfect record.

Well, this time Charles had picked the wrong tree to piss on. Paul now needed a fifth team member for Tripoli -- and he could just steal someone from Charles to fill that slot. Sergio would do very nicely. He was Charles's best operative, and he even spoke fluent Arabic: a convenient excuse for requesting his transfer. If the Tripoli mission went smoothly, Paul should be able to convince Adrian that Sergio should be a permanent addition.

_Tit for tat, Charles -- screw with me and you'll regret it_, Paul thought with a satisfied smile. _Stick in the minor leagues where you belong._

Craving a cigarette, he glanced back at the clock. The half hour had passed. He reached over and shook Madeline awake.

"Madeline, it's five o'clock."

She opened her eyes, blinked several times in irritation, and rolled over.

"You're supposed to meet with Adrian at six. You'd better get ready."

She sat up abruptly. "Six o'clock? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"That's why I came here last night, actually." He chuckled. "But I got a little distracted."

She glared at him for several seconds, then, relenting, laughed wryly. "I've noticed you're quite easily distracted."

"Yes, but I know just the thing to restore my focus," he answered, leaning over to reach for her.

She pulled away and jumped from the bed, throwing him a scornful look. "I have to get ready, remember?" Then -- safely out of reach -- she smiled teasingly. "We'll work on that focus later."

***

Through the windows of her office, Adrian spotted Madeline approaching across the floor below. The young woman walked briskly but slowed near Comm, glancing at her watch and then taking an empty seat. How droll. Madeline was only five minutes early, but obviously intended to wait until precisely six to make her appearance.

Adrian turned back to the papers spread out on her desk. She had spent the past half hour reviewing Madeline's file, along with transcripts of the radio traffic from the mission. Madeline had shown a surprising amount of initiative -- disobeying orders to further the mission objective. Completely unexpected. George's descriptions of her, glowing as they were, hadn't done her justice.

Adrian heard steps approach, then a light knock against her open door. Looking up, she gestured for Madeline to enter.

"Come in, Madeline. Have a seat."

Madeline sat carefully, her posture rigid, resting her injured arm against her knee. She looked around the room but then stopped, her gaze captured by the vase in the corner of the room.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" asked Adrian.

"Very."

"I cut them this morning. Such lovely colors."

"You grew them yourself?" Madeline looked genuinely interested, not merely polite.

"I have a modest garden," Adrian answered. "I like to bring in something every day -- a bit of nature to remind me what season it is, even down here." She studied the red and violet blooms and felt a twinge of wistfulness. "We all need to stay connected to reality, one way or another."

She allowed Madeline to admire the bouquet for a few more moments before she spoke again.

"You're aware the intel on the Vienna mission was flawed?" She asked it casually, as if it were a trivial matter.

Madeline nodded.

"I knew that, of course, before you went in."

She watched Madeline's face pale as the significance of the words sunk in.

"I was never convinced of the reliability of our source," she said. "The interrogation was sloppy, hastily done." She paused for greater effect, straightening the papers on her desk into a neat stack. "And yet I sent the team anyway. Without warning Paul that there might be problems."

Madeline sat impassively, waiting for Adrian to continue, but her eyes never left Adrian's. Interesting. She wouldn't allow herself to be provoked -- or intimidated. At least not yet.

Adrian leaned back in her chair and folded her hands atop her desk. "Do you have any idea why I might have done that?"

"It was a test." Madeline spoke quietly but with an air of confidence.

"Close, but not quite." Adrian smiled. "It was a lesson, not a test."

The faintest trace of confusion crossed Madeline's face.

"You have highly developed skills in extracting information, my dear, but you've never had the opportunity to see first-hand how that information is put to use. Nor," Adrian added, "more to the point, what happens if it's flawed."

The confusion faded from Madeline's expression as understanding set in.

"I've always believed that there's no teacher like experience," Adrian explained. "This mission was intended as a vivid illustration -- something to bring the importance of your work home to you. To remind you that lives depend upon it."

"I understand that," Madeline said, defensively. "I've always understood that."

"Understood it in theory, perhaps. But from now on, when you do interrogations, you'll have personal experience regarding precisely what's at stake. How something as seemingly insignificant as the blueprint of a building being slightly awry can have disastrous consequences. I hope it will help you focus on your work."

"It will," Madeline answered. She sat utterly still, as if she were struggling to hold her reaction in check.

"But there was another lesson, as well." Adrian cocked her head to examine her subordinate. "Do you know what profiling entails?"

"Understanding the enemy. Planning out the best strategy to defeat them."

"In simplistic terms, yes. I was hoping for something more substantive."

Madeline accepted the rebuke in silence.

"Profiling isn't some dry ritual, diagramming steps on paper to be carried out by someone in the abstract. No. Profiling is a deadly serious game, pitting flesh and blood against flesh and blood. To do it well, you must know the operatives in Section as _people_, not just the skill sets listed in their personnel files."

"I see."

"Do you? Then you must realize by now that Brad, of course, was completely unsuitable. In fact, Charles, his prior team leader, had recommended him for abeyance." Adrian smiled, noting by Madeline's slightly sickened expression that she knew exactly where Adrian was leading. "I sent him on the mission as a means of demonstrating the importance of selecting the appropriate personnel."

"You knew he would disobey orders."

"I knew he would likely make some sort of critical error." Adrian shrugged. "The particulars didn't really matter."

"And you risked the mission to prove it?" Madeline's voice sharpened almost imperceptibly. She was getting braver: a reaction Adrian found amusing.

"I assigned the mission to Paul. He's usually rather good at adapting to unexpected developments." Adrian frowned. "Although this time, you reacted before he did. To be completely candid, it's more than I expected from you."

Madeline's face reddened.

"I didn't bring you into Section One to send you on missions. That would be a waste of your training and experience. But since you've demonstrated a certain flair for fieldwork, I've decided to modify my plans. You'll continue to participate in missions, at least on a part-time basis. However, your primary tasks, commencing now, will be intelligence gathering, analysis, and profiling -- and, as part of your profiling duties, personnel assessment."

Madeline nodded.

"By the way -- that demotion to Level Two."

Madeline raised her eyebrows -- a look flashed through her eyes so quickly that Adrian couldn't tell if it was curiosity or apprehension.

"Was never really a demotion. You're still Level Five."

"Another lesson?" To anyone else, the question would have seemed polite. Adrian, however, caught the underlying resentment.

Adrian stifled a smile. Despite Madeline's remarkable self-control, it seemed that there were still plenty of buttons to push. "No, a test. To see if you could accept discipline and still perform your job." She paused. "You passed, in case you're curious."

Madeline simply stared at Adrian, her eyes like black ice.

Adrian stood. "Now, let me show you to your workspace."

***

Charles turned the page slowly, absorbing the contents of each paragraph as he sipped his tea. He hated the tea from Section's cafeteria -- they used those vile bags, nothing like the Darjeeling he brewed in his own kitchen most mornings. But he had stayed up all night in the library reading the latest banking privacy regulations, and it simply hadn't made any sense to go home.

He set down his cup and continued reading. Nauru. He hadn't come across any terrorist group funneling funds through that country yet, but it was only a matter of time. The wars in Central America had rendered the Caribbean offshore havens far too dangerous. They were crawling with CIA spooks, Cuban diplomats, Colombian druglords, militia leaders and soldiers of fortune, all running amok -- and that on top of the usual collection of con men, tax frauds and other miscreants. It was only a matter of time before something exploded, before some horrific scandal embarrassed the local authorities into clamping down on the private banking industry. It was a house of cards, really - something that any terrorist group of any sophistication would stay far away from. But Nauru, on the other side of the world, had everything: complete secrecy, minimal set-up costs, and, most important of all, quiet. It was almost perfect. He would have to tell Adrian to place a closer watch on transactions taking place there.

He set aside the volume and picked up a slice of toast, biting down on it thoughtfully. How ironic that he would be spending his time this way. Years ago, he had joined the military to _escape_ the family banking business, to seek a life of adventure -- and now, well, he had both, he supposed. A little too much adventure, in fact, for a man his age, which is why he had started to engross himself in regulatory minutiae. It was time he found a way to fight the enemy that didn't require him to carry a gun.

He looked up to see Paul passing by, clutching a coffee and looking exhausted. Apparently, someone else had pulled an all-night session. As Paul drew near, Charles started to smile in commiseration, but stopped when he saw Paul's expression. It was unsettling -- the other man looked both disgusted and bloodthirsty, as if he had spotted some sort of vermin that needed to be exterminated.

When he reached Charles' table, Paul leaned in close.

"Next time, find someone else's backyard to throw your garbage into." His voice was low, and his pale blue eyes swam with chilling menace. "I don't appreciate it."

Charles frowned, baffled. He would think that Paul was speaking in riddles, except for the fact that he seemed so angry. Beyond angry, really -- indeed, he looked, for all the world, like a cobra about to strike. Tired as Charles was from his lack of sleep, he felt a defensive burst of adrenaline that sent his heart pounding.

"What are you talking about?"

"That bozo you convinced Adrian to take off your team and put onto mine." Paul narrowed his eyes. Charles could feel the potential violence coiled below the surface, seething and broiling. "You know, the one who couldn't wipe his ass without an instruction manual."

Had Paul lost his mind? There was only one operative who had been transferred from Charles's team to Paul's recently, and Charles certainly hadn't recommended it. Quite the contrary: he had been shocked when Adrian put the man on another team instead of in abeyance where he belonged.

"You mean Brad?"

"Oh, so you're not going to play dumb after all. How nice."

"I didn't tell Adrian to transfer him to anyone's team, much less yours." Charles felt his own anger rising. He'd never had any dispute with Paul in the past, despite Paul's infamous temper, and he didn't want one now. But there was only so much of this that he would take.

"Sure you didn't." Paul sneered. "You know, Charles, just because you screw up training new team members doesn't give you the right to dump them on someone else afterwards."

That was quite enough. Whatever delusion Paul was suffering from was beside the point -- Charles wouldn't stand for that sort of insult. He took great pride in the mentoring he did for his team. Unlike Paul, he _taught_, he didn't bully.

"At least I try to take care of my people. Why, you didn't even notice that your new operative had broken her arm. I had to take her to Medlab myself." He curled his lip in disdain. "Perhaps I should ask Adrian to transfer her to my team. I seem to appreciate her more."

With a loud smash, Paul flung his coffee cup down on the floor and lunged at Charles. Instinctively, Charles jumped from his seat and stepped away; they faced off, glaring at each other, as the entire room hushed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Walter exclaimed, running from a nearby table and stepping in between the two men.

Paul scowled darkly for a moment. "This isn't over," he growled, then turned and stalked away.

Walter shook his head. "A word of advice, amigo. That was the wrong topic to bring up."

"Why?" Charles was having trouble bringing his breathing back to a normal level; his nerves were still on edge.

"I think Paul's a little, um, possessive of Madeline."

"What, because she's on his team?" Charles scoffed. "His team members aren't his property. They belong to the Section."

"No, I mean something a little more than that. You know." Walter raised his eyebrows in emphasis. "_Personally_ possessive."

As he absorbed Walter's meaning, Charles felt himself grow strangely offended. A taste of bile began to rise in the back of his throat.

"Then that's even more reason why he should have been looking after her."

Walter laughed. "Somehow, I don't think she's exactly the type that lets herself be looked after."

Charles drew himself up haughtily. He wasn't going to be lectured about women by some glorified mechanic. "She would, if one didn't try to force it upon her. A woman like that has to be allowed to _choose_ to rely on a man -- too independent-minded for anything else." He made a face in distaste. "But I doubt someone like Paul can understand that. He just tries to overpower everyone."

Walter placed his hand on Charles' shoulder. "Don't do it. Don't even _think_ about doing it. You're just asking for trouble. Trust me."

"I'm not going to do anything." Charles smiled calmly. "That, I'll leave entirely up to her."

***

Adrian led the way into the small observation room; Madeline followed and stood beside her as the door swung shut.

The room was a sterile white, empty but for two chairs facing a glass partition window, a panel of buttons and speakers lining the wall below it. The soft whir of the ventilation system was the only sound; its cool current stirred Adrian's hair as she looked through the glass into an adjoining room.

The other room was larger, but completely devoid of furnishings. In it, one of the captives from Vienna hung limply from manacles embedded in the wall, his naked back open to the air. Two other men, clad in black pants and sweaters, stood next to the prisoner. One held a police baton and wielded it against the captive's kidneys; the other leaned in toward him, his face angry and contorted as he screamed at the bound man. His words were inaudible, but his red-faced lividness burned even through the soundproof glass of the window.

Adrian turned to Madeline. "I'd like you to observe and give me your opinion."

"Of?"

Adrian made a face in surprise. Wasn't it obvious what she wanted an opinion of?

"My opinion of the prisoner?" Madeline elaborated. Her tone was clinical, her enunciation clipped and precise. "Of the information he discloses? Of your facilities and equipment? Of the interrogation process? Of the interrogators themselves?" An eyebrow arched upwards sharply. "Or of something else?"

Adrian was taken aback. While Madeline remained polite, there was a hint of impatience, almost annoyance, in her demeanor, as if she were speaking to a subordinate rather than a superior. In Adrian's office just a few moments ago, Madeline had been deferential, even nervous. Here, she was confident. At home. The recognition made Adrian's blood run cold.

"Of anything you like," Adrian answered, swallowing hard and forcing a smile. "This is your domain now. Everything in it is open for your assessment."

Adrian pushed a button to switch on the sound from the other room, and the two women observed, side-by-side.

The beating wasn't particularly brutal, that Adrian knew. Yet she had trouble forcing herself to watch; her stomach contracted in discomfort. This sort of thing was unavoidable, but so distasteful -- she had always tried to leave that work to others, preferring to know as little about it as possible. George never seemed to have a problem with it. He accepted it, as he did so many unwholesome necessities of their trade. Adrian, however, could never shake the feeling that the practice poisoned them. They, the defenders of civilization and progress, were supposed to be above such things: better, nobler than the monsters they fought.

But were they, really?

It was the sound of the torture that disturbed her the most: the dull thwack of the baton against the prisoner's back, the creak of the manacles as his weight pulled against them, his grunts and expelled breaths at each blow, the shouts and taunts of his captors. Wincing, Adrian stole a look at the woman next to her, and then wished she hadn't. Madeline showed no reaction, no expression, no sense of witnessing anything of significance at all.

One of the interrogators reached up and unclasped the manacles, and the captive collapsed onto the floor. The two men began kicking him savagely; he attempted to curl up in defense, but was too weak to fend off their stomps. When the toe of a boot landed directly against his abdomen, he shuddered, vomited, and lay still. The two men stepped back; slowly, trembling, the prisoner lifted his head.

"Enough," he gasped. "I'll tell you everything."

As the prisoner began answering questions, Adrian felt her muscles relax and her breathing deepen. The worst was over. Soon, they would have all the information they needed.

Madeline glanced at Adrian, then back toward the window. "He's making it up," she said.

That couldn't be possible. The man was completely broken -- one could see it in his eyes. He didn't have the energy to resist anymore.

"Are you certain?"

"Quite."

"Then I'll tell them to resume the beating," Adrian said reluctantly, reaching for the intercom.

"That would be a waste of time," said Madeline. "He doesn't know anything. He's inventing information out of desperation."

"How can you tell?"

"There are cues in his demeanor." Her tone was devoid of any emotion, almost bored-sounding, and yet utterly confident.

Adrian stared into the other room, searching for a sign -- anything -- that would give the prisoner's lies away. There was nothing. The man looked desperate, true enough, but no more so than hundreds of other captives who had given them accurate intel.

She pressed the intercom button. "Return him to Containment and bring in one of the others."

"Yes, ma'am," answered the voice over the speaker.

She released the button and turned to Madeline.

"The next one is yours."

Madeline did nothing to acknowledge Adrian's statement; she simply stared back, her eyes holding Adrian's gaze with their dark intensity. As Adrian watched, not sure whether to be fascinated or horrified, a mask seemed to settle on Madeline's face. The clinical detachment of moments before melted into something subtler -- something soft, yet calculating. It was as if a cloak of outer grace and calm had descended to wrap itself around a crouching predator.

"Thank you," said Madeline. "I'll do my best."


	6. Chapter 6

With growing annoyance, Adrian read the last of Center's directives for the week, jotting down notes to incorporate into her response. Each year, the level of interference grew steadily worse; from simple monitoring in the early days, it had progressed to active meddling. The power Center held over the Sections' purse-strings had started to go to Phillip's head, convincing him that he was an expert in counter-terrorism despite his lack of experience on the ground.

She grimaced and pushed the documents aside. It was bad enough when all Phillip did was demand that she prepare meaningless bureaucratic reports or engage in esoteric research projects, wasting her already-limited time. But now -- now, he had 'suggestions'. Suggestions that she had to expend her energy responding to, explaining in painful detail why they were impractical or counterproductive. If she followed even half of them, the Sections would implode from mismanagement within a year.

It was getting more and more tiring fending him off. If only it weren't so important, she would delegate the entire mess to George, who excelled at paperwork and evasion. Unfortunately, resisting Phillip's dictates required her personal touch -- playing upon her friendship with key Council members.

Hearing a noise, she looked up in irritation, her head throbbing. When she saw Madeline in her doorway, she frowned and looked at her watch. It had only been a short time since Adrian had left Madeline in the interrogation room. For her to have returned so quickly meant there must be a problem. She sighed, exasperated. She had quite enough to deal with at the moment without yet another complication.

"What is it?"

Madeline entered the room and stood at attention. "The prisoner has provided some interesting intel, ma'am."

"Interesting. Quite an ambiguous word. I've always found that people resort to ambiguity when they're unsure of themselves." She waited for a response, but then, losing patience, snapped, "Well? Do you plan to elaborate, or am I to be left in suspense?"

Madeline blinked and drew a deep breath. "Their group is planning a massive bombing, two days from now. With the aim of maximizing civilian casualties."

"The target?"

"The Gare de Lyon."

Adrian's irritation gave way to shock. "Here? In Paris?"

The very thought of such an attack was horrifying, and not merely for the death and destruction it would cause. A bombing in Section One's own turf -- unanticipated, undetected -- would make Section look utterly incompetent, giving Center even more reason to interfere.

Madeline nodded. "But we now have a location for their Paris headquarters, as well as a list of their local operatives. It shouldn't take long to round them up."

Adrian sank back into her chair in relief. "Are you certain of the accuracy of the information?"

Madeline inclined her head. "Within an acceptable range of probability, yes."

"We'll prep a mission immediately," Adrian said, a surge of energy driving Center from her thoughts for the moment. "Prepare the information in detail and meet in the conference room in an hour to brief the team."

"Yes, ma'am."

Adrian turned away in a silent dismissal and reached for her telephone to call Paul, but looked up again when she heard Madeline clear her throat. The young woman remained standing in place, with her hands clasped and an expectant expression.

"Yes?"

"You asked me to give my opinion on what I observed."

"Ah, yes. Of course I did."

Madeline hesitated as a look of nervousness crossed her face. "May I ask how Section has selected its interrogators?"

Adrian pursed her lips in thought. "They're a mix of former intelligence officers and ex-police interrogators."

"I expected as much." Madeline pulled herself into a straighter posture and looked Adrian in the eye. "I recommend you stop using them."

"But they've spent years questioning people in all sorts of circumstances. Who else can you find with that sort of experience?"

Madeline shook her head. "That's precisely the problem. Before they even come to Section, they've developed ingrained habits that are almost impossible to correct."

"And so what do you propose instead?"

"Ideally, I'd like a staff with medical training. It doesn't have to be doctors. Nurses, medical technicians, even med students would do."

How interesting. Adrian had expected Madeline to recommend fellow psychologists for their insight into the human mind.

"Explain."

"Medical personnel have knowledge of anatomy and pharmacology. They can perform procedures with precision instead of brute force." Madeline arched an eyebrow on the last two words, with a subtle look of disdain that Adrian noted with amusement.

_So even torturers have standards_, she thought, biting back a smile. _Pride of profession, no doubt._

"They know how to administer drugs," Madeline added, "and how to observe and interpret physical reactions and vital signs. They can even revive a prisoner if necessary."

"So you would train them how to question our captives?"

"No. Their function would be to provide support." She paused a moment, frowning in thought. "The interrogator wants answers -- it's easy to get frustrated if the process seems to be going too slowly. The staff members performing the procedures must remain free of such emotional distractions, so that they can focus on the details of their work."

"Then who would conduct the questioning?"

"I would, primarily. But I also think we should integrate the field operatives into that process. Or at least the team leaders." Madeline smiled again. "As your lesson to me made clear, it's those operatives who depend on the information to keep themselves alive who are the most motivated to make sure it's accurate."

Touché. Well done. Adrian chuckled. "This is all very enlightening," she said. "I'd like you to prepare a report so that we can discuss this further. But for now, I believe you have a mission to prep."

"Yes, ma'am." Madeline nodded, turned, and walked out of the room.

As she watched Madeline depart, Adrian drummed her fingers on her desk in reflection. That was a rather interesting performance. She now knew what George had seen in Madeline -- and she also knew that she had found the right place in the Section for her. Properly molded and conditioned, Madeline could reach her true potential, could become a resource of considerable value. But handled the wrong way…the thought made Adrian shudder.

It was an unavoidable paradox: to fight evil, one needed a bit of evil. To fight depravity, one needed to understand it -- and who better than someone who was also sick? Madeline, with her distasteful background and even more disturbing expertise, wasn't only useful, she was necessary. Critical, even. And anyone who became critical had a type of power -- which is what made her so dangerous.

In a sense, Madeline was much like nitroglycerine: useful, powerful, but highly unstable. Needing strict control. Needing, in essence, to be kept under lock and key. Fortunately, Adrian knew exactly how to do that. Ironically, it was the young woman's performance on the mission that had provided the answer, that had given Adrian the key to understanding her. To Adrian's surprise, Madeline had been willing -- even eager -- to risk her own life. Her disobedience of orders in the process made it clear that she wasn't like so many other Section operatives, accepting danger only when forced to. To the contrary, Madeline had sought it out on her own.

That act provided Adrian with a useful insight: Madeline wanted to be heroic, wanted to be self-sacrificing -- wanted, as Adrian now saw, to be someone better than the girl who had killed her sister in a fit of selfishness. Ultimately, Adrian realized, what Madeline wanted was forgiveness. Wanted it desperately. It was her motivation for everything -- and, therefore, her greatest weakness.

The Section could be presented to her as the vehicle for such forgiveness, to convince her that if she worked hard enough, accomplished enough, she would cleanse herself of that crime. Of course, it would never be enough. Adrian would dangle that forgiveness just out of reach, doling out praise in small doses, alternating with rebukes. With each successful mission, with each enemy destroyed, Madeline would inch closer to redemption -- only to see the goal recede before her. Eventually, she would become addicted to the Section, unable to function outside it, and thus under control. A loyal servant, content in her place; her assets fully exploited, but her threat neutralized.

That was the key to the future, really. Groom people for the appropriate station in life, for what they were born to do -- and teach them to not just accept it, but to be grateful. That was the way the world functioned best. Madeline didn't know it yet, but Adrian was acting in her best interests. Someday, perhaps, Madeline would gain the wisdom to thank her.

***

The subdued light of the Section -- usually so depressing -- was a welcome relief from the sunshine outside. Crossing the main floor, Lisa removed her sunglasses and rubbed her temple. Too many vodka shots the night before, followed by too much Scotch, followed by…ugh, she couldn't remember.

The several glasses of water she had downed didn't seem to be helping -- instead, it sloshed uncomfortably in her stomach as she walked, adding a seasick-like quality to her nausea. Food might help, but nothing seemed appetizing. The smell of the leftovers in her refrigerator that morning had sent her stomach into near rebellion; the mere thought of Section's cafeteria fare threatened to do the same.

What she really needed was sleep. In ten more hours, that's exactly what she intended to do. And with a week of downtime starting at the end of the day, she could sleep as long as she wanted -- which, judging by the way she felt now, might be for several days straight.

The hard sound of shoes echoing from above made her glance up; spotting Madeline descending the stairs from Adrian's office, she stopped and waited. At first, the other woman didn't see Lisa -- she looked distant, lost in thought. But when she looked up and caught Lisa's eye, her expression warmed and she smiled in greeting.

"She isn't giving you shit, is she?" asked Lisa when Madeline reached the foot of the stairs.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Adrian. Was she raking you over the coals about something?"

Madeline frowned. "No, not at all. Why?"

"You didn't look very happy just now. I call it the 'Adrian-just-blindsided-me-again' look." A corner of Lisa's mouth twisted up. "It's a common side effect of visiting that office."

"Oh. I'm just tired, I suppose." A faint smile crossed Madeline's face. "Too much celebrating last night."

Lisa laughed. "Tell me about it! Except I see I'm going to have to give you some partying lessons. You didn't even try to keep up with Patrick and me. And then you left early, you spoilsport!" She shook her head in mock disapproval. "Team One has standards you're expected to live up to, you know."

Madeline laughed in return. "I see. I'm sorry I let the team down."

"Next time you'll do better. Or else I'll tell Paul that you're making us look bad." She grinned. "Trust me, you don't want to know what kind of punishments he can dream up."

Madeline gave her an odd look, and a tinge of red crept into her face. "Well," she said, with a laugh that seemed almost uncomfortable, "I certainly wouldn't want that."

She looked away quickly, and when she turned back to Lisa that distant, distracted look had returned. "But I have some work to do. I'm afraid it involves a deadline." She smiled at Lisa apologetically.

"Oh, of course," answered Lisa, a bit taken aback by the abrupt shift in mood. "I didn't mean to hold you up."

Madeline walked off, and Lisa proceeded toward Systems, heading for an empty workstation. Her week of downtime might give her a welcome respite from missions, but she had no intention of spending the entire time at rest. Instead, she would print out the code for the program she had been working on, and use a large part of her week off reviewing and debugging it. When she was done, she would present it to Jules -- along with her formal request for a transfer to a programming assignment. Her third such request, actually, but the first one where she had a code example to submit with it. That, she hoped, would make all the difference.

Reaching the seat, she smiled to herself and typed the commands to bring up her files. Jules had been scornful of her interest in computers, but when he saw what she had come up with, he would be blown away. She was ten times better than anyone else he had working for him, not to mention a hell of a lot more motivated.

She sat back and waited for the program to load, but then frowned. Where was it? The directory was empty. She shook her head in confusion and tried again; the hangover must have really fried her mind if she couldn't keep the commands straight. This time, she typed slowly, concentrating, making sure each keystroke was correct.

When she saw that the directory was still empty, a wave of nausea surged over her -- and this time it had nothing to do with the prior night's drinking. Where the hell was it? Panicking, she checked for the backup file she had set up. It, too, was missing.

She sat for nearly a minute, staring at the screen and frozen in horror, before she could even begin to think clearly. Why hadn't she printed out a hard copy? She hadn't wanted to leave it at her apartment -- had been too paranoid about breaching Section's security if the document somehow fell into the wrong hands. So stupid!

_Shit, shit, shit!_ she thought, wanting to groan aloud in despair.

Calming slightly, she began to think more clearly. The files might simply have been moved, and even if someone had accidentally deleted them, that didn't mean they weren't recoverable. She looked up and saw that Jules was standing nearby, talking to another operative as he worked. She stood up and walked over to him, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Can I do something for you?" He was polite, but his voice held a trace of impatience.

"I'm really sorry to bother you, but I had a file that seems to be missing. I was wondering if you might be able to help me find it. I know that--"

He frowned. "What sort of file?"

She felt herself blush in embarrassment. "Um, well, I was working on some code for a program, and I only backed it up locally. I know you're busy, so maybe you could get someone else to help me?"

"_You_ were working on some code? Code for what? You're a field operative, not a programmer."

His French accent, combined with the disdain in his expression, gave him an air of lofty superiority that made her feel even more foolish. He exchanged an amused glance with the other operative, who turned away to conceal a smirk.

"Whatever you were doing, you probably forgot to save," Jules said. "It's a common mistake with people who don't understand computers."

Lisa stared at him as realization slowly dawned on her.

"You deleted it on purpose, didn't you?" she said, almost as astonished as she was enraged. "You knew I was working on something after hours."

"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "Do you have any proof of that?"

"I've been logged in for hours at a time almost every night for months. I'm sure you can trace--"

"You can trace nothing," he interrupted. "I'm in charge of the network, you know. There's no record of any activity by you, you can be sure."

"Only because you deleted that, too. You don't want Adrian finding out that someone else can program as well as you."

They glared at each other in silence for several seconds. Then, Jules relaxed, a patronizing smile filling his face.

"This hobby of yours. It's charming, but it's a waste of your time. Adrian is not going to transfer you to Comm."

"Not if you have anything to say about it, right?"

He shrugged. "You don't have the aptitude for computer work. It's not your fault, of course. Most women don't."

With that, he turned away from her and resumed his conversation with the other operative.

She stood there for several moments, seething, but too outraged for words. Computers were her way out of fieldwork, her escape from the frontlines, her only real chance to stay alive for any decent length of time. She had placed all of her energy, all of her hopes, toward obtaining that transfer -- had believed that if she proved her ability, even Jules would be impressed enough to accept her. She had convinced herself that her hard work would be rewarded, that Section was, at least on some level, a meritocracy. Now, she saw how wrong she was, and hated herself for her naïveté even more than she hated the man whose back was turned arrogantly toward her.

This wasn't over, she vowed to herself. She had made a mistake, but it wouldn't be repeated. Her programming skills were more than adequate, but they hadn't been enough -- it was Jules' control over Section's systems that had enabled him to do this to her without fear of retaliation. It was time, then, to master that, too. To learn to protect herself. Maybe even to give Jules a taste of his own medicine.

With a grim resolve, she spun around to leave and nearly bowled over Paul, who was approaching behind her.

"Adrian's called a mission briefing," he said. "Meet in the conference room in forty-five minutes."

She shook her head. "I've got downtime starting this afternoon. I'm not supposed to be going out on any missions for the next week."

"It's local. We'll be back before the end of the day." He frowned. "And Adrian has revoked your downtime. Patrick, too. She thinks the body count in Vienna was too high."

Lisa grimaced. Her program destroyed, her downtime cancelled -- and a hangover on top of that.

_This is turning out to be just a lovely day_, she thought with disgust.

***

The Gare de Lyon was unusually crowded that afternoon, packed with travelers on their way south for the holiday. Tense with anticipatory energy, Madeline wandered through the station, retracing her path again and again. She circled by the ticket booths, stopped at a newsstand, and passed the entrance to the platforms, watching each person, each family, each group.

The noise of footsteps and voices echoed sharply off the hard floors and high ceilings, interspersed with laughter, yelling, a baby's piercing wail. In front of her, a boisterous group of teenage boys roamed, looking for girls to whistle at and tease. Behind her, an elderly couple argued heatedly about whether the wife had packed too much -- the man blustering, the woman shrill.

She looked at her watch. There were only two more minutes until the time that the explosion would have taken place: the explosion that she had played a large part in preventing. Driven by a curiosity that had almost become a compulsion, she had come to the station to see, in the flesh, the people whom she had saved. Now, they surrounded her, jostling her as they passed; she, in turn, studied them, intent on absorbing every detail of their appearance, determined to burn each individual into her memory.

In Section Two, she had known that her work helped fight terrorism, ultimately, but there had never been any direct connection to saved lives, had never been anything specific she could point to as justification for the acts of horror she participated in. It had all been amorphous, theoretical -- and unsatisfying. In Section One, things were different. Each person in the station that day was a living, breathing victory; each one was proof that she had accomplished something to be proud of, and that her existence mattered.

The thought that now she could actually see these people, speak to them -- even touch them -- had finally overwhelmed her. So she had slipped out of the Section and come to the station. Finally, after so many years, she would be able to look a person in the eye and say to herself: I saved that person; that individual wouldn't be here but for me. And not just once, but hundreds of times.

She checked her watch again. Twenty seconds. She stopped in place, counting down. When she reached zero, she inhaled in excitement and looked up, almost expecting time to freeze or things to start moving in slow motion -- hoping, illogically, that the moment would somehow linger in its significance. But it was gone in an instant of nothingness. As hurried travelers pushed their way past her, she felt no triumph, no sense of accomplishment. It was as if the moment held no significance at all.

Her lack of reaction puzzled her for a moment. After the mission, as she stood over her captives, she had felt intoxicated; after the interrogation, when the prisoner broke under her will, she had been elated. But this -- the real victory, supposedly -- gave her only a strange sense of emptiness. She stared at the face of each passerby, hoping to see something that would trigger the emotion she sought. Then it struck her. These people, these innocents she had protected, had no idea what she had done. To them, this moment was completely ordinary. Meaningless. Her lack of feeling mirrored theirs.

Confronting the enemy, in fact, had been far more rewarding. The enemy, after all, knew everything: they knew that she was alive, knew that she had triumphed, and knew that her victory mattered. When they looked at her, fear filling their eyes, they acknowledged her importance, appreciated her skills -- were forced to do so, even in their hatred of her. With them, she had significance. Here, however, she was nothing. No one. A shadow, lost and invisible.

As she continued to stand, motionless, the nothingness gave way to a feeling of anger: anger that at first she tried to suppress, but that proved too much for her. The people milling around her weren't evidence of accomplishment, after all; instead, their indifference, their complete ignorance, was a stinging insult. A reminder of how much they had been given, and at whose expense.

All of the risks and sacrifices were hers; all of the benefits theirs. She knew, logically, that it wasn't their fault; nevertheless, the unfairness of it began to eat at her, burning like a corrosive acid. She stared at several people passing by, a feeling of resentment tightening the muscles in her abdomen. How could she know that these 'innocents' were even truly innocent? She suffered, she imagined, so that that man could live to continue cheating on his wife, that woman continue being an alcoholic, that man continue embezzling from his employer, that woman continue beating her children. How were their lives worth more than hers?

She closed her eyes, struggling to control the surge of rage that threatened to drown her. Eventually, she found her answer. It was a mistake to weigh her life against any of theirs. No given individual was necessarily worth more than another. It was the numbers that mattered, the scorecard of lives saved versus lives lost. If she died to save ten people, that was a fair trade; if she killed ten people to save one hundred, that was a fair trade. If she saved more lives than she destroyed, that was all that mattered. Who specifically lived and died was immaterial -- deserving and innocent, or undeserving and corrupt; it was out of her control, hence irrelevant. The end result, in the abstract, was the only way to justify anything, the only way her sacrifice was even remotely bearable.

She opened her eyes again and turned to leave, but felt one last wave of nausea and dizziness. Her vision blurred and her legs weakened, forcing her to stop and close her eyes once more. With a burst of willpower, she forced the nausea down and took several slow breaths. When she opened her eyes a few moments later, she was suffused with a deadened calm, with a numbed acceptance, and she began to make her way out of the station. As she walked, the people rushing past her blended into the background, transformed into mere shapes and colors, dehumanized flashes of movement.

They had become as invisible to her as she was to them.

***

Exiting the station, Madeline walked away slowly, possessed by a strange feeling of heightened awareness: perception, mixed with detached indifference. Sounds were louder, the late afternoon light brighter -- and yet, she seemed to observe things from afar, rather than sense them directly. Around her, the wind was picking up; it blew her hair haphazardly and rolled stray pieces of litter across the sidewalk in front of her. She stepped around them and moved on, pushing her hair back behind her ears, only to feel the wind whip the strands back into her face again. Mechanically, she repeated the process, then gave up.

She was less than half a block from the station when, in the corner of her eye, she noticed a car slowing as it headed toward the curb. As she turned her head to look, a silver Mercedes pulled alongside her and stopped. So close to the station, it probably meant nothing sinister. Nevertheless, she stepped away cautiously, taking care to place other individuals between her and the car, ready to flee into a nearby shop at the first sign of danger.

Attempting to appear casual, she strolled closer to the shop's front door, watching the car intently even as she pretended not to. She tensed as the rear window rolled down, and then her eyes widened. Inside, staring at her gloomily, was George.

She approached the car. As she reached the door, he pushed it open and moved to the far end of the seat to allow her access. She climbed inside and closed the door behind her with a quiet thump, settling into the soft leather interior as the car pulled off.

They rode in complete silence for blocks. At first, to avoid George's unwavering gaze, she stared at the back of the driver's head; after a few minutes, she turned to the window and watched as they weaved smoothly in and out of traffic.

Hearing George clear his throat, she turned away from the window and looked at him warily.

"How are you settling in at One, Madeline?" He gave her a perfunctory smile, but his gravelly voice and dour expression always made him seem morose, even when he was trying to be pleasant.

"Very well," she answered politely. She matched his smile in both duration and intensity -- on guard, like a fencer taking position.

"I happen to be on my way past there. I'll drop you off nearby."

"Thank you."

As she sat, feeling him inspect her with his watery gaze, a sense of apprehension began to fill her. It started in the pit of her stomach, then seeped through her nervous system, until even her fingertips seemed to buzz with the urge to take flight.

He hadn't passed by the station -- just as she was departing -- by coincidence. That was impossible. He had had her followed. The question was why.

For several excruciating minutes, he engaged in small talk, seeming to take pleasure in drawing things out, in pretending that he had nothing more on his mind than trivialities -- that he was simply an employer kind enough to offer a ride to an employee whom he had chanced across. She forced herself to reciprocate, glancing repeatedly out the window as if she could will the traffic to move faster.

He paused, then smiled again.

"A few years ago, we had a conversation about the future of the Sections. I trust you haven't forgotten that."

His expression darkened; in response, her pulse surged.

"No, I haven't." She would never forget that conversation, even though she had tried. Every detail remained horribly vivid: the bitterness of the coffee as she pretended to enjoy it; the wooden slats of the table that she had stared at to avoid his gaze; the pained expression on his face as he confided his plan to betray Adrian; and, most of all, the fear that gripped her when she realized the danger he had put her in with his confession.

"Good," he said, continuing to stare at her attentively. "At the time, the discussion was purely hypothetical, as I'm sure you were aware."

"Of course," she answered, wondering if he were going to disavow his prior statements. The thought gave her a feeling of tremendous relief. She was prepared to go along, to pretend that she hadn't taken him seriously -- to engage in whatever face-saving game he wanted to play, if it would free her of the burden of complicity that he had placed upon her.

"Now, however, your arrival at Section One changes the situation. Things are no longer merely hypothetical."

His words hung heavily in the air; under their weight, her relief collapsed, replaced by a cold, enveloping dread.

He frowned thoughtfully and continued. "I was originally opposed to the idea of your being transferred to One. I wanted you to work with me running the other Sections, to help me establish a power base away from Adrian's scrutiny. It was Adrian's idea to have you moved."

She nodded blankly.

"But upon further reflection, I've come to realize that your being there provides us with an advantage."

Us. Not him. He was assuming that she had agreed to help him, that he had her support - even though she had never explicitly given it. That he -- obviously not one to indulge in blind trust -- had such confidence in her loyalty was unsettling.

"How so?" she asked, careful to sound interested as opposed to anxious.

"You're going to be my eyes and ears at One -- my informant, as it were."

"What information could I provide that you don't already have access to?" she asked, puzzled. "You have higher clearance than I do."

"We've opened several new Sections in the past few years -- all of them my responsibility," he explained, his voice a low drawl. "I rarely even visit One anymore. No time, frankly. Besides, I have certain reasons for wanting to distance myself from Section One as much as possible."

She shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the implications of his last statement.

"You will report to me in detail about everything that goes on," he said. "In particular, the intangibles -- those things one can't appreciate by reading personnel files and mission reports. The atmosphere, the interactions among people's personalities -- the things that make up the living, breathing Section, not the Section on paper."

She nodded. It made sense.

"You'll also need to cultivate relationships with the other operatives. Get to know them. Learn their strengths, their weaknesses, their ambitions. Identify the dissidents and troublemakers as well as the loyalists. And store that information away for future use."

"I understand." Instinctively, almost unwillingly, her mind began creating the categories of information she would collect -- sorting by type, rating by reliability and significance -- the attraction of the task gradually displacing her reluctance to cooperate.

"Of course you do." He regarded her almost warmly. "I have great faith in your powers of observation."

She smiled in return, accepting the compliment.

"For the time being, that's all I ask. I'll let you know when it comes time to do more." George slid open the glass partition to address the driver. "Drop her off here, please."

The car pulled to a halt. As Madeline reached for the door handle, George placed his hand on her arm.

"You'll be richly rewarded for your assistance, Madeline. Have no doubts on that score."

"I don't."

"Good." He paused, his grip on her arm tightening. "But just in case the thought of going to Adrian with this ever crosses your mind, you should know that there would be consequences."

They stared at each other, then he smiled.

"You were estranged from your parents before we recruited you, I know. But I think I know you well enough to guess that you wouldn't want to be responsible for anything unfortunate happening to them. It would be a bit much, wouldn't it, after the havoc you already wreaked in their lives."

She blinked in shock, as dizzy as if he had struck her in the face.

"I'll be in touch with you again shortly," he said, releasing her arm and nodding his dismissal.

She opened the door and exited, resisting the urge to run, not wanting him to see the extent to which he had unnerved her. She waited until she heard the door close behind her and the car drive off before she began to walk, unsteadily, heading toward the Section.

His threat hung over her darkly for several blocks. But as she walked along, the wind again blowing her hair into her face, that fear slowly faded. There was no real danger, she realized, because he would never have to make good on that threat. She knew, even if he didn't, that she would never go to Adrian with anything; that, as much as she distrusted George, she hated Adrian more.

Years before, after all, she had vowed to take vengeance on Section's leader, to dispense justice to the woman who had ruined Paul's life. While she would have preferred that vengeance to take a form of her own choosing, what George offered was an acceptable substitute. In some ways, it was even better, because -- with his backing -- it was more likely to succeed.

Her mind cleared in a way she hadn't experienced since her transfer; with each block that passed, she became more focused, confident, determined -- and somehow strangely grateful to George. He had given her a gift -- unintentionally, of course -- but no less priceless. Until now, each day at Section One had been torment: she had been confused and disoriented, unsure how she fit in, searching for some purpose, some motivation, some goal beyond mere survival. She had tasted it on the mission, sensed it in the interrogation room, but had been unable to identify it. Her misguided attempt to find it among the people at the train station had failed completely, leaving her more lost than ever.

But George gave her back her bearings. He had pointed out to her what she did best, reminded her who she really was. She wasn't a heroine or a martyr; her purpose wasn't to save or protect. Rather, she was an agent of destruction: a curse, a scourge, a dispenser of punishment -- lacking mercy, compassion, or pity. Her function was to serve as a relentless destroyer of sinners and criminals: the living nightmare of Section's enemies, of Adrian -- and of anyone else who deserved retribution. Maybe, in a sense, even of herself.

She squared her shoulders, ready to enter Section. She had a place there, after all. Maybe even a destiny. Now, it was time to fulfill it.

**End of Part One**


	7. Chapter 7

## Part Two - 1985

 

The warehouse echoed with fragmented sound: shattering glass, gunbursts, shouts. As if conjured by the noise, black-clad operatives poured inside through doors, windows, and even the skylight. They appeared everywhere, a swarm of invaders in bulletproof vests.

Automatic weapon in hand, Paul led the assault. He traveled with quick, evasive movements, assessing his surroundings and signaling his team. All clear, so far. Surprisingly so. The exterior of the building had been completely unguarded; the interior, too, seemed undefended. No cameras, no alarm, no guard.

_Amateurs_, he thought scornfully. Bringing so many operatives had been overkill. How could so-called revolutionaries -- holding a hostage, no less -- be so careless?

He rounded a corner, tightening the grip on his gun in anticipation, and stepped into the main room of the warehouse. Lisa and Sergio followed immediately behind, all of them ready for a firefight -- which didn't come. Paul scanned the room: enclosed by rusted metal walls, it was almost empty, with a long expanse of concrete floor, dusty and colored with the marks of prior use. Only the far end showed any signs of occupation. There, under a harsh fluorescent light, was a long table with benches, a collection of battered filing cabinets, a small refrigerator -- and a haphazard pile of weapons on the floor.

At the table sat a group of eight; lunch was set out before them. They gaped at the invasion taking place, until one man finally shook himself out of his stupor, rose, and snatched up a gun. In an instant, the sound of firing rang out in the emptiness. He spun around and fell backwards, pierced by Lisa's bullets. The others froze and stared at their colleague -- he was sprawled on the floor, eyes vacant, a dark stain spreading across the front of his shirt. The group looked up at the row of guns aimed their way, exchanged nervous glances, and raised their hands in surrender.

As Paul stood watch, Lisa gathered the weapons from the floor. Sergio strode to the table and pulled the captives away from their seats; he shoved them to their knees in the center of the room and forced their hands to their heads. Patrick joined Sergio, while the remaining operatives opened doors and rapped on the walls, searching for hidden rooms and exits.

"Fuck you, Dylan, I told you not to use the phone," hissed a thin, bearded man in wire-rimmed glasses to the youth kneeling next to him. "You brought the fucking Feds."

"I didn't use the fucking phone," Dylan retorted. "They followed Cynthia back from the store and you know it."

The bearded man scowled. "Oh, you always try to blame someone else! Nothing's ever your fault! You--"

Patrick stepped toward the first man and struck him in the head with the butt of his gun. "Shut up," he commanded, then glowered at them.

Paul smiled. If Patrick hadn't done that, he was about to. These terrorists, if one could even call them that, seemed sadly lacking in revolutionary fervor; they sounded more like bickering children. Well, bickering children with heavy weaponry, to be more accurate -- and a hostage who didn't seem to be anywhere in sight.

Paul approached Dylan, reasoning that as the youngest-looking one he might be the most likely to talk. He couldn't be any older than eighteen or nineteen -- so young to have ruined his life already. Young, but no doubt stupid, if he believed those nutty slogans gracing the posters taped to the warehouse walls. _Humanity is a disease: Mother Earth needs a vaccination_, read one, with a cartoon globe attached to a life support machine. _No mercy!_ said another, emblazoned across an illustration of Uncle Sam swinging from the gallows.

Paul gave Dylan his most venomous glare. The boy gulped, his Adam's-apple bobbing.

"Where is he?" Paul demanded.

"I want a lawyer." Dylan stared up defiantly, even though he was trembling.

Paul backhanded him. "Where is he?"

Dylan glanced at his comrades, as if to seek reassurance. "Police brutality!" he cried. "Just wait 'til this hits the press. They're gonna take your badge and your pension, you stupid pig." With that, he started making oinking noises, which several of the other captives started imitating.

Paul looked around the room in exasperated bewilderment. The other team members stood watching the display, their faces exhibiting a range of reactions from surprise to irritation: Patrick tensed, as if he were poised to strike someone again but couldn't figure out who; Lisa, next to Patrick, tightened her lips, as if barely able to suppress her laughter.

_For God's sake, how did these idiots manage to kidnap anyone? Especially someone with security like Ted Pierce? It must have been blind luck._

Paul turned back to Dylan. Without warning, he kicked the young man in the face. Dylan cried out and thrashed in pain on the floor; he spat out several teeth into a pool of blood and drool. His comrades' oinking stopped abruptly.

With a deliberately slow pace, Paul moved to the next person. He bent over, hands on his knees, to stare her in the face. She blinked rapidly.

"Where is he?"

The woman gestured toward the filing cabinets lining the back wall. Sergio and another operative pulled them aside, revealing a door set into the wall. They opened the door. Inside was a storage closet, where a middle-aged man in a rumpled business suit crouched -- blindfolded, gagged, and bound.

Sergio untied the man and helped him out of the closet. He staggered briefly, legs buckling, until Patrick stepped forward to catch him.

"Oh, thank God!" the man gasped, squinting at the light. "I was about to lose hope!"

As Patrick inspected his cuts and bruises, the man looked around at the gathered operatives. His eyes moistened in apparent gratitude.

"I'm going to reward you officers for this -- each and every one of you!"

"Yeah, with the money you get selling plutonium on the black market," one of the female captives muttered.

The man turned and gave her a withering stare.

"He's the one you ought to be arresting!" the woman ranted. "Champion Power Company's selling their spent fuel rods to arms dealers -- and we've got Mr. Bigwig CEO there admitting it on tape. But no, _we're_ the criminals, just because we kidnapped the son-of-a-bitch to expose the truth! You cops make me sick."

The man shook his head. "They're insane. They forced me to say those things at gunpoint. They had a whole list of 'crimes' I was supposed to admit to."

"Of course, Mr. Pierce." Paul surveyed the row of captives with disdain. "They're just a bunch of crazy radicals. You won't have to worry about them anymore."

The two men laughed, and their eyes met. For a moment, Paul felt a strange sense of recognition -- a feeling that made him uneasy, like looking into a funhouse mirror, where the images were both familiar and distorted.

Shaking that feeling away, Paul gestured toward Sergio. "Now, Mr. Pierce, please follow Special Agent Morelli outside. He'll escort you to the hospital for treatment."

Pierce nodded and, helped by Sergio, exited the warehouse.

Paul turned back to the captives.

"Get up. Slowly."

They stumbled to their feet, except Dylan, who remained curled up on the floor. A burly operative lifted him up bodily and swung the young man over his shoulder.

"March, single file, hands on your heads, out the door, and get in the back of the van outside. And don't try anything stupid."

"Aren't you going to read us our rights first?" asked the bearded man with the glasses.

Paul sighed. These people were trying his patience. If only Adrian hadn't insisted on bringing them in.

"You don't have any rights."

"Look, I know how it works," the man insisted, growing bolder. "If you don't read us our rights and let us talk to a lawyer, you aren't going to be able to use anything we say as evidence."

"You aren't under arrest, and we don't want evidence."

The group exchanged looks of confusion.

"Then what _is_ happening to us?" one of the women asked.

"Let's just say you've got a new employer." Paul smirked. "Call it a hostile takeover."

***

Madeline entered the room and breathed in the faint odor of disinfectant that was a permanent presence inside. Behind her, the door squealed and slammed shut with a metallic clang.

As always, the atmosphere of the room awakened her senses. The lights too bright; the temperature chilly; the surfaces hard so as to amplify sound: the interrogation chamber was designed to create discomfort, to subject Section's captives to a subtle but constant physical assault. But what was disorienting to the prisoner, Madeline found stimulating. The stark aggression of the environment heightened her perception, increased her awareness, and sharpened her focus. Its concentrated brutality allowed her to step outside herself, to shift into another plane of being while she performed her duties there, just as its contained sterility allowed her to leave that alternate existence behind when she walked out.

Wiping all traces of expression from her face, she directed her attention toward the center of the room. Restrained in a steel chair, Ted Pierce was the sole splash of color, encircled by curving white walls. His face was purple with contusions and red with gashes, courtesy of his kidnappers. Yet somehow, even in a business suit torn and stained with blood, he had a distinguished air about him. With his silver hair and broad shoulders, he looked like a captain of industry: the sort of man who was used to giving orders, not answering questions.

He sat up straight, his blue eyes flashing with defiance. Thanks to the swelling, it was hard to distinguish his features; even so, the resemblance was there. It disconcerted her momentarily, but she recovered and set it aside.

"Good morning, Mr. Pierce." She walked toward him, her movement leisurely, her tone gracious. "I've been looking forward to speaking with you for quite some time."

The defiance in his expression slowly turned to confusion. She smiled, recognizing the familiar reaction. The prisoners always expected to meet a stereotypical inquisitor hurling threats and abuse. In contrast, she was warm, even solicitous. Taunting and screaming, she had learned, undermined her objective. Such behavior only strengthened the subjects' resistance, provoking feelings of anger and hatred, giving them a burst of adrenaline that helped them endure pain longer. It was almost impossible, however, to remain angry at someone who was scrupulously polite -- the mental dissonance was simply too difficult to maintain.

"We've been observing your activities for the past several years," she announced. "But the time was never quite right for us to meet."

She continued her slow approach, step by deliberate step. His chest began to rise and fall more heavily; although there were no other surface signs, she could feel his heart rate surge, taste the fear in the back of his throat. The air between them was almost electric -- it set her nerves buzzing in readiness, hypersensitive to any sign of weakness, poised to strike the instant it appeared.

"But then Gaia's Army took you hostage," she continued. "That provided an opportunity too good to pass up." She gave him a coy smile, as if they were enjoying a mutual joke.

She stopped several feet in front of him and clasped her hands together. She stood there for several moments without speaking, waiting while his anxiety rose to an excruciating peak. Then she dropped her bombshell.

"Your company hasn't reported your kidnapping to anyone yet, you know. They're afraid that the public attention might lead to, well, all sorts of things coming to light. So I'm afraid no one's looking for you."

He blinked immediately after her last sentence, and she knew she had rattled him. She had just confirmed what he must have already feared -- that he hadn't been rescued by the authorities at all, and that the people holding him had something far more sinister in mind than prosecution.

He stared at her in shock, but then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"You want to purchase some plutonium," he said slowly, as if thinking aloud. "But you don't like our prices. So you've brought me here to try to force me to give you a better deal." He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "Forget it."

She raised her eyebrows, stifling a laugh. She had never been mistaken for a terrorist before, although, in truth, his assumption wasn't entirely unreasonable. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of allowing him to continue believing that, to see if he would speak more freely. But no, she decided, such a game would merely slow the process down. In this case, it was better to be direct. First, however, his sudden show of courage needed to be dealt with. She would thus remind him of his vulnerability. Nothing blatant was necessary -- a subtle show of power would do.

She circled the chair, stopped behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was light, gentle, almost a caress. Then she leaned in to speak to him, her lips only inches away from his ear. She felt his body tense.

"Actually, I have a deal to offer _you_, Mr. Pierce."

She stepped back, taking care to remain out of sight behind him.

"What?" he asked, squirming in his seat to try to look at her.

Satisfied with his level of discomfort, she walked back into view.

"I want information. About you, your company, your contacts, and your buyers."

"Oh yeah?" he said, frowning. "And what's the deal?"

"That you won't suffer too much."

She smiled. He blanched.

Abruptly, she returned to the door. She opened it and allowed a white-coated lab technician to enter; he rolled in a gleaming silver surgical cart bearing several instruments, syringes and vials. He wheeled the cart next to Pierce, then stood by, waiting attentively.

"What the hell?" Pierce gasped.

Madeline allowed her face to harden and her voice to chill. "Let's start with your wife. Annette."

"What do you want with her? She doesn't have anything to do with my business."

She didn't answer or even change expression. "Where did you meet?"

"Why do you want to know that?" A touch of fear glazed his eyes. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

"I don't like repeating myself, Mr. Pierce. Where did you and your wife meet?"

"On a ski trip in Vail," he answered breathlessly. The fear ballooned into panic. "For God's sake, you're not going to hurt her, are you? She hasn't done anything -- she doesn't know anything!"

"Tell me about the ski trip. When was it?"

He shook his head as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "I'm not answering any more questions unless you tell me what this is about." He gripped the arms of the chair and wheezed, hyperventilating.

She glanced at the technician. "He seems to be getting a bit distressed. A half dose, please."

The technician picked up one of the vials, inserted a syringe and drew up the liquid, then leaned over to inject Pierce in the neck. Pierce flinched and kicked his legs helplessly.

"That's a mild sedative," she said. "It should help you feel a little less anxious. We have quite a few questions to go through, and it doesn't help your memory if you're upset."

She waited until his breathing began to slow.

"Now," she said, softening her voice, "when was the ski trip?"

He shook his head again, and the tears continued to well up. "No. I'm not telling you anything. You're going to do something to her."

She sighed. Such marital devotion was admirable, but it wouldn't last long.

"The deal was that if you gave me information, you wouldn't suffer too much," she reminded him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to withdraw that offer."

She turned toward the technician. "Wait until the sedative clears his system."

"Where should I begin?"

"The soles of his feet, then the toes."

"Should I remove them?"

"One or two. Just to give him a taste of what we can do."

The technician nodded.

As the whimpering began, Madeline left the room.

***

Lisa hated mornings. Especially after staying up all night. The chit-chat of operatives arriving for the day, the clomp-clomp of their feet, the annoying I've-had-eight-full-hours-of-sleep freshness in everyone's faces -- it all made her head throb until she wanted to throttle the next person to walk by.

She needed sugar. In large quantities.

She rose from her chair, her joints stiff from lack of movement, and half-sleepwalked in the direction of the cafeteria. She was contemplating French toast floating in a golden ocean of melted butter and maple syrup when someone barreling down the hallway body-slammed into her shoulder. She bounced against the wall and swore.

"Watch where you're going, dickhead," she snarled. Then she looked up and saw that she'd collided with Walter. "Oh, God, Walter, I'm sorry!"

"No problemo, sweetheart." He winked. "You can talk dirty to me anytime you want."

"You just never quit, do you?" She shook her head in mock exasperation. "So what's the big hurry, anyway? You hit me like a football tackle."

"Oh, man, sorry about that. Three missions on standby today and I'm late getting in. If I don't have everything ready pronto, I'm going to have a little visit from the Queen Bee, and I do _not_ want her buzzing around my stuff, you know?"

"No," agreed Lisa. "Definitely not." Walter had turned Munitions into a cozy little realm, stocked with a number of unauthorized luxuries -- luxuries that he shared with selected friends when he was in a generous mood.

"Say, Lisa," he said, the twinkle in his eyes giving way to a frown, "weren't you wearing that outfit yesterday?"

She laughed loudly in surprise. "Walter! You're a guy! You're not supposed to notice that kind of thing."

"I always notice what you're wearing." He grinned. "But seriously, you weren't here all night, were you?"

"Yeah, I was," she admitted. "I had a few things to do."

"Like what?" He gave her a stern look.

She glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one was approaching, then stepped closer and took hold of his arm.

"You remember a couple of years ago, I was teaching myself computer programming?"

"Sure. And it didn't get you anywhere, thanks to our 'friend' in Comm."

"Well, since then I've been learning our systems." She lowered her voice. "I hacked someone's password so Jules won't know I'm on, and I play around on the network every night."

He looked perplexed. "Okay, so you know the systems. Now what?"

"Now I can screw something up. I'll create a glitch Jules can't solve, and then go to Adrian and offer to fix it myself. I'll look like a miracle worker, and he won't be able to do anything about it."

"Why, you sneaky thing!" He beamed. "That's the way to fight dirty. It's about time one of the good guys struck back."

"You got it." She nodded enthusiastically. Then she leaned in even closer. "But you wouldn't believe what I found last night," she whispered.

"Well," he said, "I guess I won't know 'til you tell me."

She swallowed back a twinge of nervousness. "I was looking around, just seeing what was there, and I stumbled across some really strange directories."

"Huh," he said. "What are they?"

"I couldn't get into them to find out. The password I used doesn't have the right clearance. But they looked like personnel records for everyone in Section." She gave him a teasing poke. "I could find out everyone's deep, dark secrets."

"Shit." His face paled.

"Don't worry, Walter. I'd never blackmail you. Not for too much money, anyway."

He shook his head. "Don't even joke about that, Lisa. And don't go look. There's gonna be stuff in there you're better off not knowing. Stuff you don't even want to know."

"Yeah, I know." At his skeptically raised eyebrow, she insisted, "Really, I know."

He was right. But not looking would like opening a cookie jar and not taking a bite -- too much temptation for any mortal to take. Fortunately for her, she didn't have the right kind of password, so that jar would stay shut.

"Look," she said, "I'd better let you go before Adrian comes calling. I'll catch you later, Walter."

She gave him a friendly punch on the arm and began to walk off.

"Hey, Lisa."

She stopped.

"Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That you'll be extra, extra careful. If they catch you mucking around in the network with someone else's password, well…."

Cheerily, she waved the warning aside. "Don't worry. Careful is my middle name."

***

Adrian took a seat at the head of the table, nodding at the three operatives who awaited her briefing. Three pairs of eyes gazed back at her, each watching patiently, attentively. She studied them in turn, taking her time, struck by what she saw.

All three individuals sat quietly, with equally neutral expressions. On the surface, their temperaments seemed identical. Within their eyes, the distinct elements of their personalities came to light. Facial expression, posture, tone of voice -- all of those things could be controlled, to some degree. But the eyes were the one place where one's true thoughts and emotions almost always revealed themselves -- and thus the one place she always made certain to look.

To her left sat Paul; to the right, Charles, then Madeline. Adrian examined the two men first. Superficially, they mirrored each other: both team leaders and senior-level operatives, they sat with a relaxed air that exuded confidence, competence, and professionalism. Both of them came from military backgrounds; both, because of that, shared a strong sense of duty and honor. Interestingly, the two men even had the same color eyes -- a similarity that Adrian had never consciously noticed before. And yet the expressions contained in those eyes couldn't have been more dissimilar.

Paul's gaze always held a kind of electricity, a crackling current of light blue energy. The moods varied widely -- proud, humorous, cunning, or angry -- but the spark never wavered. Now, as he waited for the briefing, it flashed in curiosity and anticipation. Charles, in contrast, sat patiently, his manner reflective, reserved and thoughtful. Slow to anger, but also slow to make decisions, Charles was the cautious diplomat to Paul's rash warrior -- a philosopher, not a man of action.

They balanced each other well, Adrian thought. She had hoped that they would see this, too -- that someday Charles would serve as Paul's right hand as Paul took over leadership of the Sections. Together, they had just the right balance of qualities to do the extraordinary. Unfortunately, however, the two men seemed to have developed an implacable -- and irrational -- animosity.

Perhaps it had been inevitable. Rivalry between team leaders could so easily develop into personal dislike, especially for men who both, in their own ways, possessed stubborn reserves of pride. Indeed, upon several occasions, Adrian had played upon that natural sense of competitiveness, comparing them to each other unfavorably in an effort to spur greater efforts. In retrospect, that might have been unwise.

But then again, perhaps it was not inevitable at all. There might, in fact, be a more direct catalyst for their enmity: a catalyst sitting at the table now. Adrian looked into that third set of eyes with curiosity -- and even a touch of apprehension -- wondering what they would reveal this time.

Madeline, paradoxically, was both the easiest and the hardest of the three to read. She tried, Adrian knew, to hide her emotions so thoroughly -- but those eyes, those deep pools of darkness, revealed everything to one who knew what to look for. The real problem was that they revealed too much. Where Paul and Charles were essentially consistent and predictable, Madeline was unstable, her expressions veering from deeply felt emotion to detached nothingness -- sometimes in a single instant. It was exhausting keeping up with the myriad changes, taking in the contradictory impulses and multiple levels of thoughts.

The only thing that was consistent -- that lingered no matter what else was showing -- was her hatred and fear of Section's leader. It revealed itself in every look she gave Adrian; deep, intense, and violent, it couldn't be hidden, not even behind the most emotionless of expressions. The hatred was unfortunate, something Adrian wished she could have avoided, but it was an unavoidable byproduct of the fear. As for the fear, Adrian had cultivated that quite deliberately. It was the fear that kept Madeline under control, that had molded her into the invaluable resource she had become. It was the only way, Adrian was convinced, to handle her.

Thanks to that fear, fed by relentless conditioning, by a calculated mixture of rewards and punishments, Madeline had matured considerably over the past two years. She was no less emotionally disturbed than before -- that, alas, was most likely a permanent affliction -- but she had become disciplined, obedient, and loyal to the Section almost to the point of zealotry. She was devoted to her work, throwing herself at it with a focused brilliance that at times amazed Adrian. Led by a strong hand, she could continue to be that way.

Unfortunately, however, the man Adrian envisioned running Section didn't show any signs of being able to impose the kind of discipline that Madeline needed. Two years after Madeline's transfer, Paul continued his affair with her, despite Adrian's expectation that he would have tired of her, the way he had every other woman with whom he'd been involved. It was time, then, to bring things to a head -- to cure him of this unhealthy attachment to a woman who could never be anything but a bad influence. Fortunately, the perfect course of action had now opened up. It was the choicest of ironies that it arose out of a profile written by Madeline herself.

Clearing her throat to command their attention, Adrian turned to Paul and Charles. "Have you both read the transcript of Pierce's interrogation?"

They nodded, neither changing expression.

"Thanks to Mr. Pierce's cooperation," she said, smiling at Madeline as she pronounced the last word, "we now know the full details of Champion Power Company's dealings in the black market for fissile material. We have bank account numbers, contact information for the buyers -- everything we need to target and eliminate the network of arms merchants that Pierce dealt with."

She watched both men, gauging their reactions. Charles looked distant, as if he were already calculating seized monies and inventorying assets. Paul, on the other hand, had grown more attentive -- anticipating, correctly, that there was more to come.

"We could, of course, leave it at that. What we've achieved is a major accomplishment. But, as I'm sure you know, I always believe we should strive for more. Our refusal to rest on our laurels is what makes the Section the best of the best, after all."

Paul cracked a smile, and Charles recovered his focus. Madeline remained impassive -- the author of the profile Adrian was about to distribute, she alone knew what was coming. Or so she thought, Adrian reflected with amusement. She, too, would soon be in for a surprise.

Adrian handed each of them a folder.

"Tassos Demetrios," she said, watching them as they opened the folders to flip through the papers and photographs inside. "The most notorious trafficker in contraband weapons in business today, although I hardly need to tell you that. If it exists, he sells it: germ cultures, toxins, the raw materials for chemical weapons -- and, needless to say, radioactive material."

"We've been after Demetrios for years," Charles remarked. "No one's been able to get near him."

"Precisely," Adrian said, nodding. "We've never managed to get entry into his network. He's suspicious of newcomers. He prefers to do business with well-established -- and well-connected -- players."

"Which is exactly what Pierce is," said Paul, a look of understanding filling his face. "He's been selling plutonium for several years now, and with his connections in Washington he's untouchable."

"Very good." Adrian beamed. "To date, Champion Power and Demetrios haven't done business together. However, that's about to change."

Paul and Charles sat up attentively.

"We recently contacted associates of Demetrios, purportedly on behalf of Pierce, and suggested that Pierce might be interested in initiating a business relationship," Adrian said. "Demetrios took the bait and has invited Pierce to meet with him. We're going to oblige him." She turned to Paul. "Of course, instead of Pierce, he's going to be meeting with you."

Paul's face lit up. He always enjoyed missions where he had the opportunity to play cat-and-mouse with their opponents. It was one of the qualities Adrian appreciated the most in him -- that savoring of impending victory, that enjoyment of the chase.

"With some hair coloring to age you a bit, your resemblance to Pierce will be quite remarkable," she mused. "Uncanny, almost. Once you memorize the details of Pierce's background, you should be able to fool Demetrios thoroughly."

He nodded. "So the plan is for me to infiltrate his organization and take it down."

Adrian smiled indulgently. Another one of Paul's qualities -- an endearing one, albeit sometimes problematic -- was his tendency to jump to conclusions. "Not quite. But I'll let you read the profile Madeline put together. That should explain everything."

She glanced at Madeline before continuing. The other woman continued to sit, hands folded on the table, the model of discipline.

Adrian turned back to Paul. "Demetrios has proposed that Pierce take a holiday in the Greek Islands. That will allow them to meet discreetly without appearing out of the ordinary. To maintain the cover, he has asked that Pierce bring along his wife." She gave Madeline a casual nod. "That's where Madeline comes in."

A sudden look of shock washed over Madeline. She frowned, but said nothing.

Adrian noted Madeline's reaction and pointedly ignored it. "As for you, Charles," she continued, "you'll be traveling along with them. You'll pose as Pierce's financial advisor -- the one who handles all the details of the transactions. We've created a plausible back story for you should Demetrios feel the need to investigate. The details are in the profile -- please familiarize yourself with it as quickly as possible."

Charles nodded, flipping through the file. So dutiful, Charles. Adrian had no doubt he would have his cover story memorized within the hour.

Madeline cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she started. "It seems likely that Demetrios might do some checking up on Annette Pierce as well. Even a cursory investigation will show that I look nothing like her."

Adrian waved her hand dismissively. "That's been taken care of. Annette hasn't been in the public eye as much as her husband. We've already planted false records wherever Demetrios is likely to look."

Despite Adrian's reassurances, skepticism and disquiet still filled Madeline's face. Most interesting. Adrian knew that Madeline wasn't really worried about being exposed; there was no real danger of that, given Section's ability to plant information. No, what must be making her uncomfortable was the prospect of being required to carry out this particular mission personally. Good. It would serve as a lesson for her as well as for Paul.

"My dear," said Adrian in her most gracious manner, "your choice of Connie to impersonate Annette would have made sense if this were an ordinary mission. However, given the rather complex nature of this matter, I thought it best that only our most senior-level operatives be involved. We need someone of your experience and talents to make this a success."

They held a look for several moments. Adrian watched with interest, noting the subtle progression of emotions in Madeline's expression -- first anger, then apprehension, and then, finally, surrender. When she recognized the latter, Adrian leaned back in her chair and smiled.

"I think all of you will find this to be a most interesting assignment. Good luck."


	8. Chapter 8

The sky was a rich twilight blue, streaked with pink tinged clouds. Standing on the stonework of the villa's patio, Charles watched the distant colors deepen. A red glow traversed along the horizon and spread across the ocean, as a breeze floated up the hill slope through the olive trees. He sipped his drink, the ice rattling in his glass, and allowed the cool evening air to caress his face.

As the sky darkened further, lights began to shine in the village houses down the hillside. They looked cheerful, welcoming, cozy -- but completely out of reach, their occupants oblivious to his watchful presence above. With a sudden touch of melancholy, he began to wonder who lived inside. Their lives, he imagined, were slower, simpler, more complete than his -- attuned to the rhythms of the sea and family life, to traditions older than written history. Or were they restless, dissatisfied, wanting what they didn't have? Excitement, urbanity, material wealth: perhaps they longed for those things the same way he yearned for something permanent, something solid beneath the haze of illusions that surrounded him.

There was no answer to his question. There never would be.

He turned back toward the villa, pretending to listen to the conversation taking place around him. Instead, however, he watched the faces of his companions -- each one wearing a mask, as did he. Each one playing a role, assuming a character -- and yet, despite this, unable to hide themselves completely.

Demetrios, their target, played the jovial playboy -- a carefree man of the world who 'just happened' to be renting the villa next to theirs. In his Italian designer clothing, its spotless white fabric a stark contrast to the darkness of his curling hair, he laughed and joked about trivialities, as if his universe revolved around yachts and gambling excursions. But there were faint lines around his mouth: traces of harshness, of a hidden cruelty that underlay his surface smoothness.

Paul, standing several feet away from the rest of them, leaned absentmindedly against the patio balcony, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a frown creasing his forehead. With his hair streaked silver to simulate middle age, his role was the harried executive, unable to set aside workplace concerns even in such a beautiful setting, reduced to seeking respite in alcoholic oblivion. Charles, however, knew better -- could see the poised alertness even in his slumped posture, a native self-confidence and sense of purpose that no amount of acting could truly hide.

As for Madeline, she stood provocatively close to Demetrios, laughing when he laughed, smiling when he smiled, touching his arm, his shoulder, his hand. Her hair was overstyled, her face overmade, her outfit overpriced -- the uniform of a woman who believed that happiness could be found in the gleam of a credit card. But through the studied superficiality and aggressive flirtatiousness of her adopted persona, something else shone through. Intelligence. Independence. Fearlessness.

No, no one's mask was ever truly complete. No one could hide who he or she was, no matter how great the effort. What, Charles wondered, could they see in him?

Another question with no answer. He was asking himself entirely too many of those. He took another swallow of his drink and tried to banish such thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to focus on the conversation, on setting the bait for their target. That, after all, was why he was there.

Madeline laughed, tossing her head back, and placed her hand on Demetrios's arm. "We're so lucky to have someone so charming staying in the villa next door," she cooed, her voice silken and beguiling. "And someone who knows the island so well! Promise me you'll show us all the secret hideaways that only the locals know about."

Demetrios swirled his drink in his glass and smiled, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. "Consider me at your service. I'd be delighted to show such a beautiful lady the sights." He then looked over at Paul, who seemed only to be half listening. "And her husband, too, of course."

Paul took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled, and stared moodily at the trail of smoke.

Looking uncomfortable, Demetrios turned to Charles. "And you, uh," he faltered, then smiled politely. "What was the name again?"

"Geoffrey."

"Geoffrey. Have you been to Greece before?"

"Several times. I travel a great deal." He paused. "On business."

"I see."

He felt Demetrios examining him. In response, he tensed involuntarily, straightening his shoulders.

"How long have you known the Pierces?" Demetrios's voice was casual, but there was a focused gleam in his eyes.

"Geoffrey's my financial advisor," interjected Paul, slurring his speech a little. "And my attorney. He's completely indispensable."

"Your financial advisor _and_ attorney?" Demetrios laughed. "That's a dangerous combination. I hope you trust him. He could be robbing you blind."

Charles stiffened, this time deliberately, giving Demetrios a hard look. He felt Madeline move closer to him; she wrapped her arm around his waist and hugged him before turning to Demetrios with a broad smile.

"Geoffrey's so clever, you never know!" She looked back at Charles and arched an eyebrow, lowering her voice teasingly. "He could be stealing all sorts of things."

They all laughed; Charles made sure his sounded forced.

Madeline's expression grew more serious. "But Ted and I have both known him for years. In fact, he introduced the two of us. Didn't you, Geoffrey?"

Charles nodded. "Right. That ski trip in Vail." He smiled wanly. "Who would have thought I'd be such a good matchmaker?"

Madeline smiled again and patted his arm, her hand lingering. "You're good at so _many_ things." She chuckled. "Multitalented, in fact."

They shared a long look. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed Demetrios's expression grow intrigued.

Hearing a noise at the doorway to the patio, Charles turned to see that the cook had appeared.

"Dinner is ready."

"Oh, lovely," said Madeline, moving to head inside. "I'm starved."

Charles allowed the corner of his mouth to twist up. "Annette, you _always_ have an appetite."

***

A warm rectangle of light shone through the open door onto the patio; outside it, in the darkness, Madeline had been sitting for a half hour. She could hear the voices of the three men inside -- while the words were inaudible, the tone was steady, almost soothing. She had disappeared after their meal, ostensibly for fresh air, but in reality to allow the business discussions to begin. The fresh air, however, had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant; she breathed in slowly, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

"The view might be better if you had your eyes open."

The deep bass of Demetrios's voice startled her awake. She opened her eyes to see him standing in the doorway, holding two glasses. He strolled toward her as she rose hastily to her feet.

"There was no need to get up. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"No, you didn't," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. She hadn't expected to have time alone with him so soon: the after-dinner conversation was intended as time for the men to cement their new relationship. Her time was later -- or it was supposed to have been.

But then profiles could always be accelerated.

She walked away from the chair and accepted the glass he offered. She took a sip, allowing the liqueur's cloying sweetness to fill her mouth. A fitting drink for the occasion, she thought.

"Aren't you supposed to be inside with the other men, talking about important things?" She lifted an eyebrow in sarcastic emphasis.

He scowled. In the dim light, his thin features appeared sharp and severe. "They started smoking cigars. I hate cigars. So I excused myself." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Besides, it's completely rude to leave you alone like this. I don't want you to think that the men of my country are boors."

"Oh, quite the contrary. Why, if you're any indication, I'm beginning to think quite highly of them."

They stood in silence for a few moments, tasting their drinks in unison. Then he looked her up and down with what seemed to be amused interest.

"He's a bit old for you."

She smiled in mock innocence. "Ted, you mean?"

A wicked expression filled his face. "Either one of them."

She laughed, but said nothing in response.

He shrugged. "You like mature men. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Let me put it this way. There's nothing more attractive than a mature portfolio." Her smile widened.

"How delightfully mercenary." He lifted his drink in a toast. "A woman after my own heart."

She raised her own drink, and they clinked their glasses together.

He took a step closer, brushing his arm against hers. The scent of his aftershave washed over her -- masculine, but soft and exotic.

He leaned in toward her, his mouth near her ear. His breath was warm. "It's a wonderful coincidence that we happened to be renting villas next to each other."

She rolled her eyes. "The pretense isn't necessary, you know."

He stepped back again, making a valiant effort to appear surprised. "Pretense?"

"This isn't a coincidence at all. I know that."

He frowned.

"I know all about my husband's business. And I know why we're really here."

"Do you?" This time, it was genuine surprise that filled his face. "He tells you that?"

"No. Geoffrey does." She smirked. "Geoffrey tells me everything."

"He didn't strike me as the talkative sort."

"Oh, but I can be so _very_ persuasive," she said, reaching over to run a finger lightly along his chest.

She laughed softly, in the back of her throat. He laughed in return, but without any confidence, clearly affected.

"Actually," she continued, "Geoffrey knows more about the business -- or at least the part of the business that concerns you -- than Ted does. Geoffrey takes care of everything -- procurement, payment, delivery. Ted's much too busy playing golf with 'important people', if you know what I mean."

They shared a long look. Demetrios took a quick swallow of his drink.

"It sounds like you appreciate Geoffrey a great deal."

She smiled slyly. "As Ted said, he's completely indispensable."

"And is he really -- how did you phrase it -- multitalented?"

"About many things, yes." She reached for his chest again; she placed her palm against it and felt the warmth through his shirt. "But not everything."

A slow smile lit his face. "Oh, that's too bad."

She withdrew her hand and took another drink, savoring it as she looked into his eyes.

"Do you know anything about my husband's company?" she asked, steering the conversation toward the final setup.

"Some." He frowned, seemingly puzzled by the shift in topic.

"Did you know it's privately held?"

He shrugged. "So?"

"It's a bit old-fashioned. Maybe even foolish financially. But there's a lot less scrutiny that way. It makes it easier to do business with people like you."

"Mm hmm." He nodded, but looked slightly bored.

"But there's another advantage, too."

"Yes?"

"Ted owns a majority of the shares. It really is _his_ company. Which means that if, God forbid, anything ever happened to him, it would be mine."

For a moment, he said nothing, his ability to speak lost in apparent shock. Then, slowly, a look of admiration filled his face, and he began to chuckle softly. "And are you expecting something to happen to him?"

"Oh, goodness, no." Her voice was rich with unspoken meaning. "But you never know, do you?"

He smiled. "No, you don't."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card.

"Here's my private number in Athens," he said, handing her the card. "If anything ever happens to Ted, you give me a call."

***

Paul leaned against the pillows, hands folded under his head, as he waited alone in the bedroom. He shifted positions, rustling his legs against the starched sheets, and then settled back again. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light across the room; he let his gaze roam idly, taking in the stylish furniture, the harmonious colors, the tasteful artwork -- and then abruptly rolled over. None of it could hold his attention. He was never good at waiting -- his mind, restless, always wandered elsewhere.

Madeline had been outside with Demetrios far longer than Paul had expected. This was, he reminded himself, an excellent sign. However, not knowing what was going on was a form of agony. It had taken all of his self-control to refrain from eavesdropping. At first, he had tried to distract himself by conversing with Charles -- until he realized that, unable under the circumstances to discuss their work, he had nothing to say to the man. So he pleaded fatigue and wandered off to bed, where he tossed, and turned, and tossed again.

He would have given anything to have been able to watch Madeline toy with Demetrios. She raised manipulation to the level of art, rendered deceit into something refined. Observing her in action was like witnessing a leopard stalking an unwary gazelle -- she moved with a concentrated energy, poised for just the right moment to spring and tear the throat out of her prey. It was an elegant deadliness, graceful in its single-minded ruthlessness. Thinking of it, Paul smiled to himself. Demetrios didn't stand a chance.

He relaxed in relief when the door finally opened and she walked into the bedroom. Her face was flushed from the night air; her movements, as she closed the door and crossed the room, were quick and decisive. That, Paul knew, was another excellent sign -- her faint aura of excitement a clue that the chase had commenced.

She threw him a look: a look that he knew very well, that signaled that there was much to be said, but no safe way to say it. This room -- like all the others in the villa -- had been bugged by Demetrios -- a fact they had confirmed immediately upon their arrival. Nevertheless, there were subtler means of communication: code words, stock phrases that they relied upon in situations such as this.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asked. He used an accusatory tone for the benefit of their observers, but they both knew what he really meant: did you make progress with him?

"Very," she said curtly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had expected a simple 'yes', or a more ambiguous 'I suppose' -- but her unequivocal answer meant only one thing: they were on an accelerated schedule. It was time, then, to take the next step -- to begin the next act of the play they were performing.

She turned away from him and began to undress, unbuttoning her blouse and removing it, draping it over the back of a chair. As she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, he rose from the bed and approached her from behind. He slid his hands along her shoulders and began to nuzzle her neck, pressing his lips against her skin with a series of moist kisses. She pulled away and whirled around to glare at him in feigned disgust.

"You're drunk," she said coldly.

He gave a scornful laugh. "And you're not?"

They stared at each other for a several moments.

"Could you have been any more blatant in the way you threw yourself at him?" His voice nearly shook in bitter intensity.

"At least he seemed to appreciate me. Unlike a certain man who ignored me all night. Why shouldn't I have spent time with him?"

He seized her by the wrist and flung her onto the bed. "You're my wife, damn it. It's time you remembered that."

As he looked down at her -- half-dressed, long hair strewn haphazardly across the bedspread, framing her face with its dark curls -- he almost forgot the point of their exercise. She gazed up at him, and spark of mischief flashed through her eyes, but then it disappeared into an expression of brittle coldness.

She began to laugh, her tone mocking. "Oh, please. What are you going to do? Ravish me? We both know you're not up to it." She smirked. "Especially after you've been drinking."

Despite knowing that her words were for Demetrios's benefit, he felt a rush of cold fury at the withering disdain in her delivery. For a few seconds, there was nothing he wanted to do more than fall on top of her and wipe that smug look off her face -- all night, preferably. However, that was most definitely _not_ part of the profile. So he took a deep breath and looked down at her contemptuously.

"I don't think the problem is me. After all, you're not twenty years old anymore. In fact, I've been thinking that it's about time to get a new model of trophy wife anyway. Something younger." He smirked back, matching her earlier expression. "Something blonder."

She got up from the bed and walked over to stand next to him, fixing him with a deadly glare. "You wouldn't dare," she hissed. "I'd take you for everything you own."

He folded his arms over his chest. "Need I remind you of that little document you signed? What was that called?" He chuckled. "Oh, yes. A prenup." His smile turned chilly. "One more performance like this evening, my dear, and you're out on the street."

He walked back around the bed and slid back in, settling in comfortably, as she stared at him with an outraged expression.

"You know, this is turning out to be a pleasant evening for me, too." He smiled triumphantly. "Sleep well, Annette. I know I will."

He reached over and switched off the bedside light, leaving her in darkness.

***

The faint sound of the door creaking open woke him. For a moment, forgetting where he was, Charles's first thought was to reach for his gun. He quickly stifled that instinct and lay still, blinking when the light turned on overhead.

Madeline stood in the doorway, dressed in silk pajamas and a matching robe, her hand on the light switch. The sharp look she gave him commanded him into silence; she closed the door carefully, and then crossed the room to sit at the foot of the bed.

The mission profile had wide parameters, and Charles had prepared himself for almost anything. However, her visit to him -- here, now -- was puzzling. No doubt it had something to do with her conversation with Demetrios after dinner, wherever that had led. But there was no point in speculating. All he could do was play his role and let her take things from there.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and smiled warmly. "This is a pleasant surprise. But don't you think we should be more discreet?"

She threw him a glacial look. "Don't get excited. I'm not here to fuck you, if that's what you were thinking."

He winced, taken aback. Role or no role, it was distasteful hearing her speak so crudely -- it was so far divorced from her normal demeanor that he found it extremely disconcerting.

Her expression seethed with anger. "Ted just threatened to divorce me," she announced, her speech hard and clipped. "You have to do something."

Interesting. Things were moving much more rapidly than he had anticipated. But at least he knew now where this conversation was heading.

"Oh, Annette," he groaned, trying to sound exasperated. "He's done that before. He'll never go through with it."

"I don't care." She crossed her arms. "It's time. I'm sick of your always finding reasons to wait. I want it taken care of when we get back home."

"But--" he started.

"No," she interrupted, unfolding her arms again and leaning forward in emphasis. "You _promised_ me, Geoffrey. You told me you knew people who could do it. Are you going back on that now?"

The look on her face -- dark with sheer bloodthirsty rage -- was so convincing that Charles almost shivered with a momentary chill.

"Of course not," he said, his voice soothing, with just a tinge of defensiveness thrown in. "It's just that everything has to be set up first. I have to get control of all of the accounts -- and it hasn't exactly been easy convincing him to give me the contact information for his buyers. It's taken years."

"Yes, years!" she spat. "That's exactly the problem. Six years, to be exact -- six years of my having to live with the son-of-a-bitch while you twiddled your thumbs. Do you know how long it took _me_ to get contact information for a buyer? Hmm?"

"I don't know, Annette," he said slowly, sarcastically, "how long?"

"One fucking night!" she hissed, flinging a business card at him.

He picked up the card and read it in amazement. Genuine amazement. One night. Demetrios was apparently more gullible than they thought. Or perhaps Madeline was a better seductress than he'd realized.

"Sometimes I wonder if you know what the hell you're doing," she said, shaking her head in disgust.

"My God, this is his private number," he exclaimed. "We could bypass Ted altogether."

"No shit."

"And Demetrios is the biggest player there is. We wouldn't even need to deal with any of the other distributors. A contract with him would mean more money than we'd know what to do with."

"More money than _you'd_ know what to do with," she corrected icily.

He took a deep breath. "All right. I can fix his accounts so that it looks like he has a lot of gambling debts. When he turns up dead, the police will blame it on that."

"Good." Her expression hardened. "And tell those people you know to torture him a little first. I want him to suffer."

He raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that a bit vindictive, dear?"

She stood from the bed and looked down at him coldly. "That's for every time he put his hands on me the past six years."


	9. Chapter 9

One by one, Adrian spread the satellite photos across her desk until the entire surface was covered. She examined them, eyes darting from picture to picture -- a frown starting, then growing, then deepening into a grimace of pure disgust.

The images could have been taken for those of a mining pit or construction site -- a gaping wound in the ground, lined with unidentifiable debris. Only the notes that accompanied the photos told what it really was: the remains of an apartment complex in Teheran. Once occupied by at least fifty families. But now….

So dreadful. In a horrifying escalation of hatred, Iran and Iraq had started attacking each other's capitals, targeting civilians indiscriminately. Adrian found herself obsessed with the carnage, even though she was powerless to stop it. Her sponsors had made it abundantly clear that her purview was limited to the small-scale incidents they defined as 'terrorism'. Such a narrow-minded approach they took. This, they claimed, was war: something she had no right to intervene in. But in reality, what else could the wholesale destruction of a city be called but terroristic? And who were people like Saddam Hussein but the worst terrorists of all, despite all their trappings of state power and international recognition?

At least she was doing her part to keep their hands off nuclear weapons. The operation against Demetrios would be a major victory in that regard.

The telephone rang shrilly. Good. It was probably Raymond with the updates from Egypt.

"Good morning," she answered.

"Adrian," said Phillip, his tone smoothly elegant. "Good morning to you."

A sour taste filled her mouth as she recognized his voice. Phillip's timing was, as always, impeccably poor. He seemed to have a sixth sense about the worst moments to call; invariably, it was when she was her busiest and most distracted.

"Phillip," she replied, forcing a pleasant-sounding demeanor. "What an unexpected pleasure. I hope all is well at Center."

"Oh, quite. And at the Sections?"

"Busy." She chuckled in an attempt to sound lighthearted, although her answer, in actuality, revealed her reluctance to speak with him.

He, too, gave a pseudo-merry laugh, and then he cleared his throat.

"I read an interesting story in the newspaper this morning. It seems an American businessman has turned up dead. A very well-connected American businessman. Ted Pierce. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

She frowned. _He wouldn't dare interfere in this mission_, she thought. _Just let him try._

"Yes, I believe I have," she answered, remaining studiously noncommittal until she could ascertain his intent.

"A rather shocking story, I must say. A gangland style killing -- tortured, shot in the back of the head, and then stuffed into the boot of a car. They say he apparently had large gambling losses."

"So I hear."

There was a lengthy pause. When he spoke again, a touch of anger had crept into his voice.

"There's a disturbing rumor floating around that it wasn't a Mafia killing at all. I wondered if you knew anything about it."

He clearly knew the truth, but he'd rather play games than get to the point. Fine. She could oblige him as long as he liked.

"What is it that you want to know, Phillip?" she asked innocently.

"I want to know if Section One was responsible," he snapped, no longer bothering to conceal his hostility. "Don't be coy. I don't have the patience for it."

"Yes, we were. What of it?"

He sighed audibly. "This man had powerful friends, Adrian. It should have been handled differently."

"This man, as you put it," she said, "was selling radioactive material to killers and madmen. How, pray tell, should we have handled it?"

"You should have cleared it with me first."

So now he wanted veto power over missions. Completely intolerable.

"Why?"

"This isn't a private crusade of good against evil, however much we would like it to be. We have people to answer to. More specifically, _I_ have people to answer to. And I can't give them answers if you don't tell me what you're doing."

Her back stiffened defensively. He had crossed a line -- a line that he had once promised never, ever to cross. It seemed he needed reminding of that.

"When this organization was founded," she said acerbically, "I was promised full autonomy to pursue our goals as I saw fit. Center exists to provide guidance on the nature of those goals, not to micromanage the Sections."

"You're saying that you won't cooperate."

"I'm saying nothing of the sort. I will, from now on -- and strictly as a matter of courtesy -- give you advance notice of any mission that might be construed as sensitive. I will, to the extent possible, comply with reasonable requests. But I will not compromise a legitimate mission every time you feel uncomfortable breaking the news to your colleagues. Quite frankly, your spinelessness is your problem, not mine."

She heard him suck in his breath.

"Well, then," he said, "do you have any missions pending that might be construed as 'sensitive'? Now that you've so generously agreed to inform me -- strictly as a matter of courtesy, of course."

She pondered her answer for a moment. He seemed angry, but he was quite clearly in retreat. She would thus give him something to allow him to save face.

"Yes, we do, in fact. An operation against Tassos Demetrios."

"Demetrios? How ambitious," he said, his tone patronizing. "To what end?"

"To identify his buyers and suppliers. To strike at them before they realize they've been compromised. And when that's done, to destroy him, of course." Adrian smiled at the thought.

He laughed dryly. "If you can accomplish that, I'll be most impressed."

"I'm sure you will be."

He paused.

"Since you made such a gracious offer to comply with 'reasonable' requests, I have one to convey."

"Please do."

"When you bring in Demetrios for interrogation, I have some matters I'd like you to ask him about."

"But we're not bringing him in for interrogation."

"How else are you going to identify his network?"

Adrian grimaced, glad that Phillip couldn't see her reaction. His question demonstrated his utter lack of practical knowledge about how people like Demetrios operated.

"Bringing him in would tip off his associates that something was wrong," she explained, struggling to maintain her patience. "The instant they couldn't reach him, they'd shut down their bank accounts and cut off all contact points. As a result, it's essential that we identify them while he still appears to be operating normally."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"We have operatives planting surveillance and working their way into his network. In several months' time, we expect to have gathered enough information to track down most of his business partners. At that point, we'll strike -- against everyone, simultaneously."

"I see." He sounded perplexed. "Then at _that_ point you can bring him in for questioning."

"That would be pointless," she said, growing increasingly irritated. "His network will be destroyed. There's nothing useful he could tell us."

"Useful in terms of conducting missions, no. But what I want from him is quite different."

What _Phillip_ wanted from him?

"What is it that you want?" she asked cautiously.

"I'm building a database here at Center. I believe that by collecting historical data regarding past patterns of terrorist activity, we can create algorithms to predict the recurrence of those patterns in the future. Demetrios would be a veritable fount of information in that regard."

"I see," she said, her brows furrowing as she assessed the significance of his statement. "So you'd like him taken alive and brought over to Center for questioning."

"No, no," he said testily. "We don't have the facilities for that sort of thing. You know that, Adrian."

"Then what?"

"I'll forward you a list of the data I require from him. You are to interrogate him in the Section."

In other words, he wanted her employees to spend their valuable time collecting information for some pet project of his. No, worse than that. This database sounded like an elaborate excuse to tell her what missions to launch -- and he wanted her to help him build it.

On its face, however, there was nothing unreasonable about the request. Recognizing that she had probably antagonized him enough for one day, she set aside her reluctance.

"Very well. We shouldn't have a problem doing that."

"Good. I'm sure you'll keep me informed as to the status of this mission?"

"Oh, yes."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Adrian."

Without waiting for her to reply, he hung up.

***

Lisa poured herself a glass of mineral water and leaned back in her chair, eyeing the other customers in the restaurant with mild curiosity. Even at such a late hour, the lunchtime crowd was heavy. She had forgotten what a popular place it was -- it had been months since she had been able to persuade anyone from Section to join her there, and the half-hour wait for a table had caught her by surprise.

She was even more surprised by the identity of her lunch companion. She asked Madeline to join her on the spur of the moment -- but hadn't really expected her to accept the invitation. A couple of years before, they had been quite social, even if not exactly close. But as Madeline spent more and more time devoted to her profiling and interrogation duties -- and as Lisa spent every moment of her spare time sitting in front of a computer terminal -- the two women had been reduced almost to the level of nodding acquaintances.

It rendered the conversation rather awkward, in fact. Lisa no longer knew what Madeline was interested in, apart from work, and vice versa. After several abortive attempts to respond to the conversational gambits that Madeline threw out, Lisa gave up.

_Fall back on the tried and true_, she thought. _Maybe that's all I know how to talk about anymore._

"So," she said, "when do you go back to Greece?"

"Tomorrow," Madeline answered, slicing a piece off her chicken.

"How many trips do you think there'll be?"

"To do all the transactions? Probably at least a dozen."

"God, that means you're going to have to spend a lot of time with that creep." Lisa wrinkled her face in distaste. "I don't envy you this one."

Madeline took a bite of her food and shrugged. "I fit the profile," she said, seemingly unconcerned.

"Yeah, well, you always fit the profile when this kind of thing comes up. I don't think it's exactly fair." Lisa laughed scornfully, shaking her head. "Listen to me. Fair? What was I thinking?"

Thinking of her own situation as much as Madeline's, Lisa had allowed a hint of resentment to color her voice. Madeline glanced up, an inquisitive expression on her face. She seemed to be about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it. Instead, she returned to her meal.

Lisa toyed with one of her carrots, idly pushing it around her plate. "You know," she mused, "I'm lucky to be plain looking. I don't have to worry about getting those kinds of assignments."

Madeline gave her a surprised look.

"You're not plain looking. You just don't present yourself in a way that brings out your natural beauty." She looked Lisa up and down. "I could help you with that, if you like."

Lisa searched the other woman's face for some sign that she was joking. But there was nothing -- no teasing smirk, no trace of humor whatsoever -- only a look of utter and almost touching sincerity. She squirmed in her seat, trying to suppress her distaste at what seemed to be a well-intentioned, if unwelcome, suggestion.

"Um, thanks for the offer, but I'm not so sure I want help in that area. I'm pretty happy being skipped over for valentine duty, you know?"

"You're depriving yourself of one of the most powerful weapons in your arsenal. That's foolish."

"Yeah, maybe," admitted Lisa, increasingly uncomfortable at the casual way Madeline spoke about the matter. "But I just can't imagine doing that. Besides, you have to know all those special techniques, and, uh, they didn't give me that sort of training."

Madeline's eyes widened, and then she burst out in an uncharacteristic peal of laughter.

"Special techniques?" She sounded incredulous. "Just what is it that you think you would need to know?"

Lisa felt her face flush a deep, burning red. She cleared her throat, but her voice still cracked when she spoke. "Uhh, you know, fancy moves or something. Or weird, kinky stuff." As Madeline's expression grew more amused, Lisa felt more and more stupid. "That's what everyone says the valentine ops have to learn, anyway," she added defensively.

Madeline set down her knife and fork, covered her face with her hand for a moment, and then looked back at Lisa with a broad smile.

"Lisa, ninety percent of men are extremely unimaginative. Most of the time, all that's necessary is that you show up."

Lisa drained her glass of water, too embarrassed to say anything in response. How had she managed to find herself in the middle of this discussion? Wasn't work supposed to be a _safe_ topic?

Madeline took a bite of bread and chewed it with excessive concentration, making an obvious effort to stifle her laughter. By the time she finished the bread, she seemed to have it under control.

"Actually," she said, her manner suddenly thoughtful, "there _is_ something you have to learn in order to do that type of work successfully. But it has nothing to do with exotic techniques."

"Oh yeah?" asked Lisa, relieved to know Madeline was dropping that topic, although she wasn't sure the new one would be any better.

"You need to be able to attract the target's attention, to flatter him and boost his ego -- to appear to be enthusiastic about an experience that you might actually find tedious or even disgusting. It's about _acting_, about learning to put on a performance."

That look of sincerity was back, an expression of almost sisterly concern and earnestness that caught Lisa off guard. She wanted to look away, but it pulled her helplessly in.

"If you can learn to act in those circumstances, you can do it in any situation," Madeline explained. "It's a skill that translates into many, many other settings, out in the field and elsewhere. It's a long-term survival skill. That's why I say you'd be foolish not to learn it -- not because I think we need more operatives doing seduction assignments."

"Oh," said Lisa, finally understanding. "I see what you mean. You have a point, I suppose." Madeline did have a point, Lisa knew, although it didn't make her any more willing to sign up for valentine duty. "But, you know," she said, seizing at the opportunity to change the subject to something that made her feel less idiotic, "I'm working on another long-term survival skill. One I hope will get me out of the field completely."

"Really? And what would that be?"

"Computers. I've taught myself to program, and I've spent the last two years studying Section's systems. I know it like the back of my hand," she announced proudly.

"Very impressive. Why haven't you put in for a transfer?"

"I have. Three times. Jules said no each time." Lisa rolled her eyes. "He doesn't think women understand computers."

"Hmmm." Madeline frowned. "There might be a way around that."

"Like what?" Lisa sat forward with interest. She had her own idea about how to get around Jules's opposition -- an idea she had shared only with Walter -- but wondered what Madeline might come up with.

"I could place an entry in your personnel file. About how your last evaluation showed a high level of computer aptitude. It's likely that Adrian would eventually reassign you herself, if for no other reason than to test you out, and Jules wouldn't have any legitimate reason to object to it."

"You have access to the personnel files?"

"For the field operatives. It's necessary for my profiling work."

So Madeline had clearance to access personnel files. The same ones Lisa had stumbled across, no doubt. It made sense when Madeline explained it, but the possibility hadn't occurred to Lisa before.

_If someone accessed those files using Madeline's system password, nothing would seem amiss. No alarms, no suspicious logons -- no one would ever know._

The force of that thought made Lisa sit back suddenly in shock. It was a dangerous, _stupid_ idea -- one that was better ignored and forced back into whatever insane recess of her mind it had emerged from. Still, it might just work. But then again, if it didn't….

_Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it_, she told herself, gripping her napkin tightly.

But she knew she would.

***

Madeline nodded in thanks as the young man placed a tray of food on the coffee table. Shyly, he dropped his gaze to the floor and departed the room without a word. From out of the shadows in the corner of the room, a gray-haired man, frail and stooped with age, emerged to hand her a milky-looking glass of ouzo. She accepted it with a grateful smile; he inclined his head deferentially and then retreated again.

"You've had a long journey," said Demetrios, who leaned back in an oversized armchair. "I thought you might appreciate some refreshments."

"Yes, thank you," said Charles. He selected a slice of cheese. "Most thoughtful."

Wearing a dark suit and tie that looked uncomfortably formal compared to Demetrios's loose-fitting trousers and open-necked shirt, Charles perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa. Beside him, Madeline cradled her glass in both hands, sank back into the heavy cushions, and slowly crossed one leg over the other. Demetrios's heavy-lidded eyes shifted back and forth, watching one of them, then the other, his expression unreadable.

His gaze returned to Madeline.

"I read in the papers that you'd gone into seclusion in your grief," he said, not quite repressing a smirk. "You didn't even attend his funeral?"

"No," said Madeline. She shook her head in a parody of regret. "Those _dreadful_ people who killed him have been sending me death threats. The police thought it would be better to keep a low profile."

"Have they?" Demetrios asked, raising his eyebrows. "Truly barbaric." He picked up a drink from the table beside him and sipped it, peering at her over the top of his glass. "Still, while you're the owner now, the company has already hired a new CEO. Isn't he the one I need to deal with?"

"I hired him to go about the business of running a power company," she answered coolly. "That's not something I'm interested in learning how to do. But as for our business," she paused and smiled knowingly, "he's been kept out of the loop."

He set his drink down and shifted forward in his chair, reaching toward the coffee table. He plucked a dolma from the tray and slid it into his mouth; his jaw circled slowly as he savored it.

"All right, then," he said, licking his fingers clean with a smacking sound, "since you two are the ones to reach an agreement with, here are my terms."

Madeline set down her drink and sat forward attentively, joining Charles on the edge of the sofa.

"I'm a high volume customer. I need to be certain that when I need the product, a supply will be available. As a result, I expect exclusive purchase rights. And you'll give me a fifty percent discount from what your other customers have been paying."

Charles sat back, his expression shocked. "That's quite a demand."

"I think it's more than reasonable."

Charles laughed uncomfortably, picked up his drink, and took a long swallow. He shook his head. "We'll need some time to consider it."

"No, we won't," said Madeline.

The two men turned toward her, their faces registering surprise. In Demetrios's case, genuine surprise; in Charles's, an excellent imitation.

"Those terms simply aren't acceptable," she said calmly.

Both men stared at her.

"I understand your concern about guaranteeing access to an adequate supply," she said. "But exclusivity goes a bit too far. Instead, we'd be willing to grant you the right of first refusal. That way, you're protected, but if you don't buy what we have, we'd be free to go elsewhere."

Demetrios's eyelids twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"As for a discount," she continued, meeting his gaze steadily, "that's probably warranted. But a fifty percent flat rate isn't feasible. We have fixed costs to meet -- employees and inspectors to pay off, that sort of thing. However, we could offer you a sliding scale based on volume."

She smiled brightly and picked up her drink. She took a demure taste, and then set the glass down. Demetrios gaped for a moment, and began to laugh in disbelief.

"I don't think you understand who you're dealing with," he said. "I don't negotiate. My suppliers accept the terms I give to them."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, that's too bad." Fixing him with an unwavering stare, she stood up. "I guess we'll be leaving, then."

She glanced down at Charles, still sitting on the sofa. He looked up at her as if she had lost her mind, but slowly, feigning reluctance, rose to stand next to her.

Demetrios snatched out a gun from the drawer of the table next to him. He jumped to his feet and aimed the barrel straight at Madeline's chest.

"I don't think you'll be going anywhere."

Madeline forced herself to keep her gaze directed at his eyes -- to look at the gun would be a sign of fear and weakness, and weakness, in front of this man, would mean immediate death. She suppressed the urge to swallow and concentrated on keeping her breath slow and controlled.

"Go ahead," she said, ignoring the painful thudding in her chest. "Shoot us."

He stared at her, unmoving, the gun still pointed at her heart. The sound of the breath through his nose was heavy with anger.

"Of course," she continued, "if you do, the company will fall into the hands of outsiders, and you'll lose access to the single largest, highest quality, and cheapest source of plutonium on the market."

He blinked but still remained silent.

"Now," she said, with a fleeting but regretful smile, "had you chosen to be reasonable with us, you could have provided the product, upon demand, to any customer, at any time, and in virtually any amount. With your right of first refusal, you could have even kept the supply out of the hands of your competitors. Why, if anyone wanted a bomb that could be relied upon to work, they would have come to you -- and paid a premium for doing so." She shrugged. "But if you want to throw that away, kill us. You'll be back to bribing Russian generals for whatever they can scrounge up at the moment."

As she spoke, she watched the look in his eyes shift gradually -- from lethal, to curious, to impressed. At her last remark, his mouth twisted sharply upwards as if he were trying to suppress a laugh. Finally, he lowered the gun. From beside her, she heard a relieved sigh from Charles.

"You raise some interesting points," Demetrios conceded with a gracious half-bow.

"I thought you'd recognize that. You are an intelligent man, after all."

"I think I might need to give the matter some further thought."

"Of course."

They held a look, not in challenge, but in mutual respect. Eventually, Demetrios broke it, glancing at a nearby clock.

"I'm afraid it's getting quite late," he said apologetically. "I think it would be better if we continued this discussion tomorrow."

***

When the door closed behind him, Charles glanced quickly around the guest room. So many hiding places, it was hard to know where to begin. He walked over to the table where the servant had placed his suitcase and flipped it open, dug under the folded garments, and withdrew a small electronic device disguised as a pen.

Device in hand, he moved through the room, tracing a slow path back and forth, going through the motions of unpacking and arranging his belongings. The green light flashed three times; inspecting those areas more closely, he spotted the tiny transmitters. One was on the underside of a lampshade; another clung to the back of a picture frame; the third was stuck behind a table leg. A red flash gave away the presence of a camera, mounted above the door. How unoriginal. Didn't Demetrios's suppliers even bother searching for these things? No wonder he took advantage of all of them.

Charles had no intention of removing the bugs, however. Instead, he placed the detector back in his suitcase and pulled out his own set of transmitters. Demetrios wouldn't be the only one eavesdropping on the conversations of his visitors -- gleaning their plans, gathering information on their activities. Keeping his movements as innocent-looking as possible, Charles hid the transmitters far from Demetrios's poorly placed ones, activated each one, and began to whistle cheerfully.

_Hello there, Section_, he thought. _Anyone listening?_

He started when, almost in answer to his question, he heard a knock at his door. He approached it, brushed out the wrinkles in his jacket, and pulled it open.

"Done unpacking?" asked Madeline -- meaning, as he knew, whether he had planted his transmitters.

"Yes."

"Good," she said, walking past him into the room without invitation. "So am I."

He closed the door and turned around to face her, and the adrenaline from earlier in the evening returned in a dizzying rush.

_Demetrios almost killed us_, he thought.

The profile called for Madeline to stand up to Demetrios, to provoke him into anger as a means of gaining his respect -- to raise her, in his eyes, to something more than just another supplier to be manipulated, something more than just a potential sexual conquest. Charles had known that, had even looked forward to seeing how Madeline chose to defy him, but he hadn't expected the man to react quite so dramatically.

When Demetrios pulled out his gun, every instinct Charles possessed demanded that he step in front of Madeline. The effort to resist that urge had left him shaking with nausea. Nevertheless, he had succeeded, forcing himself to remain rooted in place, fixated on her expression. The look in her face as she dared Demetrios to shoot her had been utterly enthralling: both relaxed and intense, both serene and fierce, it was the look of someone without fear. Someone who was ready to die. It was simultaneously terrible and beautiful to behold.

Now, however, she looked at Charles quizzically, lifting an eyebrow in a sharp reminder that it was time for him to play his part. How could he have forgotten? He was standing there, lost in thought, when Geoffrey was supposed to be livid. He shook himself out of his reverie and crossed his arms in a show of anger.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" he hissed. "What were you doing?"

"Making sure he didn't think he could rip us off."

"You don't do that sort of thing with a man like him! He's not some Mercedes salesman you can dicker over terms with -- he's a criminal, for God's sake. A murderer, an arms dealer, and a terrorist!"

"So are we," she answered with a short laugh. "We've become all of those things now. We might as well act accordingly."

"But he's a big fish, and we're in _his_ pond. He kills nobodies like us without a second thought."

"If you act like a nobody, then that's who you'll always be." She smiled. "As for me, I intend to grow into a very big fish, and I don't really care whose pond I'm in."

He forced his voice into an exasperated tone. "You're not going to live long enough for that, at this rate. Nor am I, thanks to you."

"Oh, Geoffrey. You need to have more faith in me. I know what I'm doing. It's all about finding whatever leverage you have and using it. I understand that -- you don't. Just leave it to me."

"Well," he said, hesitating, "since you're such an expert, what do you need me for?"

"What do you mean?" Her voice lowered, a tinge of worry entering it.

"Am I going to meet the same fate Ted did, now that I've served my purpose?"

"Geoffrey! How could you say that?"

He said nothing.

She stepped toward him and placed her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs lightly stroking back and forth. "I need you, Geoffrey," she murmured, "I'll always need you." She began moving her hands -- along his shoulders, circling to his chest, and back. "I have the ideas, you take care of the details," she continued, her voice soft and reassuring. "That's how it's always worked. That's not going to change." She pressed up close against him. "Besides," she said teasingly, "you know the effect you have on me."

"I'm sorry, Annette," he said, and he slipped his hands around her waist. "I shouldn't have said that. Tonight was just a bit stressful."

"Well," she said, landing light kisses along his neck and chin, "now that you've stopped worrying over nothing, I think we should celebrate. We're about to become very, very rich."

"What kind of celebration do you have in mind?" he asked, laughing softly.

"I see you have no imagination whatsoever. You can leave that to me, too."

With that, she touched her lips to his in a lingering kiss that sent his heart into painful leaps. He tried to keep his thoughts in order, but found them spinning hopelessly out of control -- it was time, finally, to commence the part of the act that he had been trying not to think about. The part that had left him in dumbfounded shock when he had first read the profile, not sure whether to be thrilled or apprehensive. The part that was a dream come true, except for one thing. It wasn't real.

No, it wasn't real at all. Not any of it. He had no right to expect it to be. And yet a part of him couldn't resist indulging in the hope that somehow, on some level, it was. Or could be. If only she could see how much he cared for her, illusion could merge into reality. If only…no, he couldn't allow himself to think that way. This was a mission, nothing more. As they embraced and fell onto the bed, he repeated that admonition in his mind, again and again.

_A mission, nothing more._

The night passed too quickly, and yet in exquisite slowness. Indeed, time seemed to vanish altogether, reappearing only in irregular moments when he remembered, reluctantly, that an audience was observing -- that the audience was the entire point. However, those moments came less and less frequently -- eventually, not at all. Gradually, everything outside disappeared -- the audience, the mission, their false personas -- leaving only a sea of sensation and emotion, a current that pulled him farther and farther out, until the waves broke over him and he sank beneath the surface.

So there was something, after all; he felt it in the tenderness of her touch, sensed it in the softness of her voice. He had found what he wanted -- something substantive, meaningful, permanent. Finally, with someone, there was something real. Overcome, he closed his eyes and held her tightly, pressing his face against the side of hers.

He stayed like that -- clutching her to him, unwilling to move -- for several moments. Then he lifted his head and reached out to stroke her face, and that's when he saw it. She had glanced -- briefly, discreetly, but very noticeably -- at the clock on the bedside table, her expression subtle, but clearly impatient.

_My God_, he thought, growing cold with horror, _she was wondering when I would finally finish._

For her, this was a job. A duty. Nothing meaningful, not on any level. He had imagined it all. Mortified, he stared at her face; when she returned her gaze to him, her expression transformed into one of embarrassed recognition. She saw, he could tell. She saw exactly what he was thinking, what he was feeling -- and her eyes softened in a mixture of pity and silent apology.

Without a word, he pulled away from her, stood up, and walked into the bathroom. Hands shaking, he twisted the tap on and allowed the icy water to flow across his hands. He bent over the sink and splashed several handfuls of water on his face, then straightened and stared at himself in the mirror, disgusted.

What had he been thinking? He had been a fool, clinging to an impossible hope that she could somehow, eventually, be convinced to see something in him. But what was there to see? The reflection that gazed back at him showed nothing to admire -- he was too plain, too old, too…pitiful.

He had been reduced to an object of pity. Yet he hadn't always been that way. What had happened to the man he used to be? The adventurer who defied his parents' wishes to join the military, the man who had been secretly happy when he was recruited to the Section -- where had he gone? That man, apparently, had shriveled up and disappeared - too many years of living as a ghost had robbed him of his vitality. Too many years of following the rules had drained him of any character. Now, he was cautious, dull, dependable -- and desperately lonely.

He turned off the tap and looked back at his reflection, a question echoing in his mind.

_Is this my life, then?_

The hollow-cheeked face in the mirror stared back, unable to answer.


	10. Chapter 10

Madeline placed her hands on the edge of the pool and hoisted herself out, dripping water along the sun-warmed cement as she headed back to her lounge chair. Walking slowly, she reached up to her hair, squeezed out the moisture, and ran her fingers through the wet strands to smooth them back from her face.

She heard a noise and turned to look toward the sliding glass doors leading into the house. Demetrios emerged dressed in black swim trunks, a fluffy towel draped around his neck. He strolled toward her and pulled off the towel, tossing it onto the chair next to hers and revealing his muscular torso. The color of the trunks set off the bronze of his skin, which in turn contrasted with the dark hair that lightly covered his chest.

"I thought you went into the city with Geoffrey to set up the accounts," she said, surprised at his arrival.

"I let one of my assistants take him. I handle the negotiations, not the paperwork." He smiled slyly. "Like you, it seems."

She returned the smile, acknowledging his observation, and sat down on the lounge chair. She adjusted her towel and stretched out lazily.

He ran his gaze along her form, making no effort to disguise his interest.

"You know, you're very fair-skinned. You have to be careful in this sun."

"Good point," she replied. She glanced up at the sky. "In fact, my sunscreen probably washed off in the water. I should put more on."

She sat up and reached for the bottle on the table next to her, but he leaned over and took it from her hand.

"Here," he said. "I'll get your back. Turn around."

She changed positions, and he sat on the chair behind her. She heard him squeeze the contents of the bottle onto his hand and rub his hands together briskly; a faint scent of coconut wafted into the air. Then he touched her back, spreading the sunscreen across her skin with large but surprisingly soft hands.

"You don't really need Geoffrey, you know," he said casually, working the lotion into her lower back with slow, circular strokes. "Yes, he has some useful administrative skills, but you could hire someone to do that."

"Of course," she answered. She closed her eyes as her muscles relaxed under the steady movement of his fingers. "I know that."

He reached for the bottle again. This time, he squeezed the sunscreen out directly onto her upper back and shoulders; it felt cool at first, then warmed as he used his entire hand to massage it in, slipping his fingers underneath the shoulder straps of her swimsuit.

"But, you see," she explained, looking down to give him better access to her neck, "he's completely loyal. He'll never cheat or betray me, and he'll do anything I ask without complaint. You can't hire someone like that."

He rubbed the back and sides of her neck with his thumbs, then returned to her shoulders and back. He ran his hands up and down languorously, even though the sunscreen was long since blended in.

He leaned in closer to her. His chest pressed against her back.

"How are you so certain of his loyalty?"

"Because he loves me," she answered.

He chuckled, tracing one finger along the edge of her ear. "And you're not above using that."

She opened her eyes and turned around to look at him. "No. I'm not," she admitted, feeling a strange pang of guilt, as if she were confessing to something real. "I'm not above using anything."

He examined her through long, dark lashes. "I didn't think so," he said softly. "I could see it in your eyes the moment I first saw you. We're much the same that way."

His statement should have pleased her, indicating as it did that she was that much closer to gaining his trust. Instead, however, she found it vaguely disturbing. He saw a kinship in her -- and she wasn't sure that it was entirely based on her portrayal of Annette Pierce.

She hesitated, briefly disconcerted, but then forced herself to caress his face. He leaned in to kiss her, his lips as soft and supple as his hands. She returned the kiss and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders as he pressed and moved against her.

Again, she should have been pleased at how quickly things were moving, relieved that he was easier to seduce than she had anticipated. But as his hands began to roam across her body, she found herself overwhelmed by a feeling of revulsion -- a feeling so powerful that she could barely contain it -- so strong that it went beyond disgust, turning almost to panic.

She struggled to resist a deep desire to shove him away from her as violently as possible, but the harder she tried, the more his touch sickened her. The reaction was dismaying and completely inexplicable. Over the past few years, she had completed countless assignments just like this one, all of them without difficulty or even a second thought. No matter how repulsive the target -- and Demetrios was far from the worst -- she had always been able to maintain focus, deriving satisfaction out of how easily she was able to render even the most arrogant man under her control. Her feeling of superiority at being able to manipulate their weaknesses -- her knowledge that even as they thought they were in control over her, she was leading them to their ultimate destruction -- made even the most revolting experiences tolerable. Her contempt for them was all the motivation she needed to spur an enthusiastic performance.

Yet now, when she reached for that contempt, she found herself thinking of another performance: one that had taken place only two nights before. Charles, too, had believed in her pretense. He, too, had wanted her, had responded to her touch -- had, for a time, been under her control, even without her intending it. He had the same essential weakness as Demetrios and all of the others. Should she feel then contempt for him, the way she did for them? Should she despise him for the fact that he had succumbed to her performance -- that, except for one lapse on her part, he never would have known the difference? Who was the contemptible one, really? Demetrios? Charles? Or herself?

She wasn't certain that there was an answer to that question. As it rang through her mind, the edges of reality and pretense started to blur irreparably, placing her in a netherworld with no escape, because there were no longer any boundaries to cross. There was no exit, no refuge -- no longer any distinction between the inside and outside, between ally and target, between performer and performance. There was simply a mechanical response: objective, automatic, distant. It was pure activity, free of questions, doubts, and stray thoughts. As she allowed it to take over, her disgust abated and her focus returned.

***

Paul entered the conference room just moments before Adrian's arrival. As she seated herself at the head of the table, Paul took his usual chair to her right and nodded a brief greeting to Jules in the chair beside him.

Directly across the table sat Madeline. He would have smiled at her, but he knew there was no point. As always in these meetings, her focus was completely on Adrian; her posture was rigid, her expression stiff and defensive. Armor on, Paul always thought of it.

Next to Madeline was Charles, who stared intently at the table. He had looked up at Adrian as she entered, but he dropped his gaze almost immediately afterwards. Paul watched him keenly for a few moments, trying to catch his eye -- but Charles remained studiously fascinated by the tabletop. Paul stifled a scowl. What a coward. A real man would acknowledge the presence of another. Even -- no, _especially_ \-- a rival.

Then again, it might be a blessing. Paul wasn't certain that he really wanted to see the look in Charles's eyes this time -- not during _this_ mission, not knowing what the profile called for Charles to do. Better that Charles avert his gaze altogether than gloat; if Paul were to see the slightest hint of smugness or satisfaction, he doubted that he could control himself.

_Enjoy it while you can_, he thought, glaring across the table. _The mission's almost over._

"Has the surveillance been productive?" Adrian asked, wasting no time with preliminary matters. She directed a steely gaze at Jules, who sat slumped in his seat.

Jules straightened up and cleared his throat. "Yes. We've monitored the residences and offices for the past three weeks. With that, plus the information Charles and Madeline have gathered personally, I have tracked down virtually all of the buyers."

"Not the suppliers?" She looked displeased.

"Ahhh," began Jules, glancing toward Charles and Madeline with a helpless expression.

"I've convinced Demetrios that it would be to his advantage to eliminate his former suppliers," Madeline interjected, ignoring the grateful look that Jules shot in her direction. "That way they won't start doing business with his competitors. He's been taking them out himself. As a result, there's been nothing for Jules to track."

"How very considerate of him to do our work for us," Adrian said dryly. "What's our next step?"

She directed the question at Madeline, not Jules or Charles, even though both of them, technically, were senior.

"I believe there are a few more customers we haven't identified yet," Madeline replied, her speech brisk and businesslike. "But I'll have access to that information shortly."

A faint smile curled Adrian's mouth. "You've taken him in completely, then."

She leaned forward and clasped her hands together on the table, her attention concentrated wholly on Madeline, as if the three men in the room had disappeared. Madeline returned the gaze, matching Adrian's intensity. The two women seemed to be holding a private conversation, on a level beyond words; it was an exchange Paul had never seen between the two before -- not hostile, or suspicious, just focused.

"Thanks to my pricing recommendations," said Madeline, "he's increased his profits by fifteen percent. He was impressed enough to ask me to review his customer files to see if I have any other suggestions. Absent complications, I should have that data within ten days."

"Excellent." Adrian sat back again. Her focus widened, taking the entire table back within its scope. "I do believe you missed your calling, Madeline. You should have gone into business. It's almost a pity that Section intervened."

Paul smiled at the thought, and Jules laughed genially. Madeline, never one to react to Adrian's attempts at humor, did nothing. Charles, in turn, continued his somber examination of the table. It was odd, Paul reflected. Charles usually gazed at Madeline with wide-eyed adoration -- today, however, it was as if he couldn't stand to look at her.

Adrian's smile faded. Paul watched as she shifted her attention to Charles -- her focus again narrowing, but this time in assessment, not communication.

"Charles." Her voice was soft, but held a hint of underlying sternness.

Charles looked up immediately. Whatever his problem, it wasn't absentmindedness.

"Will we be able to seize the accounts of his customers?"

"Yes," Charles answered. "Everything's in place to drain their assets as soon as you give the order."

She studied him a bit longer. Under her gaze, his face hardened and grew resentful, revealing a simmering anger that Paul hadn't imagined the man being capable of. Did stoic Charles actually have a temper? Aimed at Adrian, no less. Paul's estimation of him jumped up a few notches, as did his curiosity.

After a moment, Adrian seemed satisfied. She turned to Paul.

"Please begin the process of readying the teams. We'll set the nineteenth as our target date."

"Yes, ma'am."

She looked at each of them one by one.

"I want to commend all of you on your performance on this mission," she said. "You've worked extremely hard, and it's paid off. I couldn't be more pleased. Especially with you, Madeline," she added. "Both the profile and your execution have been flawless."

Paul and Jules smiled in response; Charles nodded glumly. Madeline, without changing expression, looked Adrian in the eye.

"Thank you," she said.

As she held Madeline's look, a flash of something passed across Adrian's face. If Paul hadn't known her better, he would have sworn it was affection. But then it vanished, and he decided that he had imagined it.

Adrian stood. "We'll meet again as soon as Madeline has obtained the customer data. Thank you for your time." With that, she turned and left the room.

Jules stretched and rose slowly. Smiling, he looked over toward Charles and Madeline.

"Thank you for doing such a thorough job placing the transmitters," he said. "You know, most operatives put them someplace stupid. But yours, perfect. I could hear everything so clearly. Oh, la, la." He winked and strolled out of the room.

With a look of cold fury, Charles stood, shoved in his chair, and walked off. Madeline stared at the floor.

_Why, that little French pervert_, thought Paul, as the meaning of Jules's words struck him. _He's going to regret that._

The sound of Madeline's chair scraping against the floor distracted him from that train of thought.

He stepped in front of her before she could leave the room. "Join me for dinner?"

"No, thank you, not tonight. I'm a bit tired."

Paul examined her carefully. She looked more than tired, he concluded. In fact, she looked exhausted -- beneath the deceptively healthy-looking Mediterranean tan, there was a hollow look in her face and dark shadows under her eyes. Still, he hadn't had time with her in weeks, with her constant travel, and he missed her company terribly.

"I'll take you someplace quiet. Just a simple meal and a nice bottle of wine." He grinned in his best enticing manner. "I promise to have you home before midnight, so you won't have to worry about the coach turning into a pumpkin."

He waited, expecting her usual sarcastic retort. Instead, she just stared at him.

"I think I'd rather stay home. Thank you anyway."

"Let me cook for you then," he said, growing puzzled by her lack of reaction. "It'll be edible, I promise. Not like the last time." He smirked, remembering how amused she had been at his disastrous attempt at a roast.

"Some other time."

This wasn't mere fatigue. When tired, she always fended him off with witty barbs; he would pretend to be stung, but would give her the space she needed. But this…this wasn't tired. It was empty.

"Madeline, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm tired. That's all."

She started to walk past him; he caught her arm and gripped it.

"Is he hurting you?"

She looked faintly confused. "What?"

"Demetrios. If he's hurting you, I'll kill him."

He stared at her, his gaze locked with hers, trying in vain to penetrate through to her thoughts. He watched in dismay as her expression turned brittle.

"No, he's not," she said dismissively. "You need to stop overreacting." She looked at his hand where it grasped her arm. "Paul? If you don't mind?"

Defeated, he let go and watched her depart.

***

Pretending to be occupied with the report she clutched in her hands, Lisa sat at a table within view of the door to the conference room. She flicked through the pages, watching out of the corner of her eye as they all arrived for their meeting: first Jules, then Charles, Madeline, Paul, and finally Adrian. Brilliant -- everyone she wanted out of the way, all conveniently locked in a single room for at least a half hour. It seemed there was a God after all. Or at least someone up there who liked her, and she wasn't about to be choosy over who.

The instant the conference room door closed behind Adrian, Lisa shot up from her seat and hurried down the hallway. She had been waiting for an opportunity like this for weeks. Not that it had taken that long to crack Madeline's password -- Section's security conventions weren't really all that hard to figure out, thanks to Jules's lax attitude. But Lisa didn't dare log on as Madeline when the other woman wasn't on Section premises. If some geek noticed that she hadn't checked in that morning -- but was signed on to one of the workstations -- that could certainly complicate things. Not good at all.

So Lisa had waited anxiously as Madeline made trip after trip to Greece. One, then another, then another; every time Lisa thought Madeline was finally going to spend more than an hour or two at Section, she seemed to be headed to the airport again. Then, to torment Lisa even further, the few times when Madeline had been in the building, she had spent all her time on the computer -- precluding Lisa from logging on at the same time.

It was beyond frustrating. In desperation, Lisa had resorted to a sort of informal surveillance, watching impatiently, trying to will the other woman to get off the computer, to go do something else. Anything else. Didn't she ever get hungry? Or just want to take a break? It was as if she weren't even human.

Well, thank God for meetings. Now, _finally_, it looked like she would have her chance. Even better, the meeting got everyone else who might pose a danger out of the way as well.

Arriving in one of the lesser-used computer rooms, she slid into a seat at a terminal in the corner, where no one would be able to watch over her shoulder. There was a camera, of course -- as there were in all of the main work areas -- but Lisa knew it wouldn't be able to capture the information on her screen. The only way the sysadmin would notice anything unusual would be if he were specifically checking Madeline's computer activity and comparing it to the camera footage of her location. It was a possibility, of course: in Section, you could never completely rule anything out. But the admin on duty was lazy; without Jules breathing down his neck, he tended to spend his time playing computer games.

_Let's just hope he's racking up a high score today_, she thought, smiling to herself.

Her mouth dry with anticipation, she began typing. First, the logon screen. She tapped in the password, hit enter, and waited, her stomach turning in nervous somersaults. Several seconds passed, then boom! She was in, and the directories available to username mer120683 scrolled down the monitor.

God, there were dozens and dozens of them. Some of them were familiar to Lisa, like the collections of intel on target organizations and their members. Others were more mysterious: cryptic acronyms and abbreviations, bland sounding names that could be almost anything, and occasional ominous-sounding titles like 'Mortality Trends'. She could spend days just trying to figure out what everything was.

Unfortunately, she didn't have days. Or even hours. She scanned the directory names hurriedly, and then she finally spotted it: Personnel Database F. She selected it and waited for nearly a minute while it loaded, jiggling her knee up and down nervously. What was taking so long? She looked around the room, half expecting a squad of black-clad goons to storm in to drag her off to the White Room. But nothing so dramatic materialized. The handful of other operatives in the room continued to type quietly at their own workstations, oblivious to the breach of security taking place next to them.

Finally, the first record appeared: Abrams, David M. When she realized that she had the correct database, she nearly cheered. Licking her lips, she took a deep breath and typed seven letters in the search box, then hit the return key once more.

She watched the cursor blink as the search command cycled, ignoring the twinge of apprehension that ate at her stomach. She really wasn't doing anything wrong, she tried to reassure herself. After all, she was only looking up the one file: a file that she had every right to look at anyway. She wasn't violating anyone's privacy, wasn't prying into anyone's secrets -- why, when she thought about it, she wasn't really looking at confidential information at all. How could it be?

She had almost succeeded in calming herself down when the record appeared on the screen -- and the twinge of apprehension turned into heart-pounding anxiety. There it was, in stark orange letters.

_Birkoff, Lisa J.  
Level: 2  
Induction Date: 15 Nov. 1976  
Rating: 12  
Skills Code: W, E_

She stared at the record blankly for several seconds. Now that she'd found it, she wasn't certain what to look at. There were so many subfiles to choose from: annual reviews, team leader evaluations, aptitude test scores, psych evaluations, and dozens more. With only a short window of safety before she had to start worrying about Madeline departing the meeting, she could only choose one thing. But what?

It had to be something simple. That eliminated all of the evaluations and test scores: those, she would need more time to interpret -- and to modify, if she dared. She frowned, aggravated, but then finally made her selection.

_Personal Data_

There wouldn't be anything there that she didn't already know, but she found herself curious, wondering how much information they had really collected about her background. How did they even find her in the first place? Was it an accident, or had she been selected for recruitment ahead of time?

The file opened and she began to read, skimming the file's contents as quickly as possible. Birth date, birthplace…they even knew what elementary school she attended. It was thorough, all right: there wasn't a detail of her former life that seemed to have escaped their notice. She had to admit it was impressive, in a frightening sort of way. Her paranoia about the passing time increased, so she started skipping paragraphs. However, toward the very end of the file, an entry caught her attention.

_Next of Kin  
Parents: Deceased  
Siblings: 3  
Spouse: N/A  
Children: 2_

She stared at the screen, frozen, her hands poised motionless above the keyboard -- all worries about the approaching deadline vanishing beneath the churning ocean of memories that opened up around her.

She closed her eyes and found herself back in that room, eight years before. Lying in the bed in Medlab, emerging from sleep still groggy from the painkillers, she had barely been able to comprehend the doctor as he spoke.

"You need to choose now," he had said, his expression apologetic. "I can bring them in again if that will help."

He did, but it didn't help. Seeing them only made the choice all that much more impossible. She couldn't do it, couldn't choose between them, couldn't decide which one would have the life of freedom and which the life of servitude. How could she? So they had made the choice for her. No one ever told her what it was.

She opened her eyes again, blinking back the moisture that welled up in the corners, and kept reading. Jason. He was the lucky one, it appeared -- placed for adoption, given a normal life with a supportive family and middle-class trappings. The file didn't contain many details, but what little there was seemed reassuring.

Then Seymour. She gulped back the lump in her throat, and read.

_Status: Maintained in Test Facility, Level 16._

She read the line, disbelieving, over and over.

Level 16? Level 16, _in Section_? She knew that Section was raising him as some sort of experiment, that eventually he was expected to become an operative, but she had thought it would be in a home somewhere. Or a school. Not _in the building_, like a lab animal.

_All this time_, she thought, a searing burst of rage enveloping her. _All this time he's been here in the same fucking building. For more than eight years. How dare they._

Unable to read any further, she abruptly closed the file and terminated the computer session. She sat, staring at the blinking cursor, as her mind spun in a haze of shock, disgust, and fury.

All this time, and no one had told her. Someone was going to pay for that.

***

Paul remained in the conference room long after Madeline had departed, leaning against the table and staring blankly at the door. He couldn't leave, couldn't even move; his body seemed sapped of energy, his mind wandering in listless circles.

There was something seriously wrong. But wrong in a way that confounded him, that defied his attempts to identify it. Wrong in a way that left him with a feeling of helplessness and dread.

Madeline had been through difficult missions before. She had been through tiring missions before. There had been occasions -- more often than he would like -- when she wanted time to herself. But no matter what, he had always been able to find that little spark of life -- that subtle acknowledgement that what they were doing, the risks they were taking and the sacrifices they were making, was worthwhile. Exhilarating. Even fun, in a strange sense that perhaps only the two of them could understand.

This time, however, there was nothing. She responded like an automaton; there was no sense of mischief, no wicked delight in the impending downfall of their opponent, no delicious anticipation of triumph -- none of the things that he adored about her, that bound them together inseparably. Those things were gone, and it frightened him.

Something had happened to her on the mission, he was sure of it. Demetrios must have hurt her -- if not through outright violence, then some other sort of abuse. There was no other way to explain her behavior: the distance, the emptiness.

Her denials didn't reassure him. In fact, they only made him more suspicious. Actually, now that he thought about it, everyone at the meeting had been acting out of character, save him and Jules. There was Charles, alternately dispirited and angry. Stranger still, there was Adrian, unusually pleased with Madeline, yet harsh on Charles. It didn't make sense.

What the hell was going on with this mission? Whatever it was, he didn't like it. Even more, he didn't like not knowing.

Madeline wasn't going to tell him. He certainly couldn't ask Charles. Adrian was out of the question. Which left him nowhere. Or did it?

There was Jules, after all. Jules and all that surveillance -- the surveillance that the little twerp had made that smug crack about. If Paul could get access to it, that surveillance might just allow him to find out what was going on for himself. Once the mystery was solved, he could decide what action to take.

With a burst of determined energy, he strode out of the conference room. He crossed the main floor to Comm.

"Jules."

Jules spun around in his chair. "Mmm?"

"I need to review the surveillance recorded on Demetrios. Set me up on one of the monitoring stations."

Jules made a wry face. "We have over ten weeks' worth of material, recorded twenty-four hours a day at multiple locations. Do you plan to listen to it all?"

He frowned. "No, of course not."

"Then what are you looking for? Just tell me and I'll get it for you. I'm sure I can find it for you faster than you can yourself."

Shit. He couldn't tell Jules what he was after -- but then he couldn't very well listen to every single tape, either. He sighed in exasperation.

"Just give me the tapes where Madeline is with Demetrios."

Jules frowned in confusion. "What do you need that for?" But before Paul could answer, he smirked. "Ohhhhh, so you want to engage in some recreational listening, hmm? Why didn't you say so, mon ami?"

Paul stared down at the man in disgust. Jules's neck, only inches away from Paul's hands, would be oh-so-easy to snap. But not quite yet. Instead, he forced a cold smile.

"Just set things up at the monitoring station, and let me know when it's ready."

"Consider it done." Jules chuckled. "I think you'll find it very enjoyable. I know I did."


	11. Chapter 11

When the last recording hissed and came to an end, Paul ripped off the headphones and threw them onto the table. He switched off the equipment with an abrupt jab of his finger, then he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, tensing his abdomen in a vain attempt to control the spasms that erupted from deep within his gut. But they were beyond control; they coursed through his body like an electrical current, scorching everything they touched.

He should have stopped listening immediately. From the very first tape -- innocuous as it had turned out to be in comparison to the others -- he had known how bad it would be. Yet he ignored his instincts and forced himself to continue, convinced that he would find an answer if he kept listening long enough. He had been so certain that he would hear something that would explain Madeline's distance and depression -- that he would find something terrible that Demetrios had done to her. Something, he hoped, that he could fix or protect her from.

So he had listened to every meeting, every conversation, every encounter -- he sat for hours at the monitoring station, motionless, absorbing every moment, every word, every sound. In the end, he realized there was nothing. No violence, no abuse, not a hint of anything even remotely sick or twisted.

If anything, it sounded like she very much enjoyed the experience.

As he listened to her voice -- thick and suffused with sensuality -- he found himself simultaneously revolted and aroused. This woman on the tapes, so enflamed and consumed with ardor, was clearly Madeline -- but at the same time she was someone he had never met. She never, _ever_ sounded like that with him: never gasped his name so fervently, never begged him for more so desperately, never whispered to him so provocatively, each word drawn out with exquisite slowness in that rich, low voice. No, she never did any of those things -- and now, he found that he wanted them. He wanted them violently, even as they disgusted him.

But before that, he wanted to tear apart every man who had ever enjoyed them.

His jaw clenched so tightly he could feel the vein in his temple throb. Opening his eyes, he took a slow breath, trying to relax. His reaction was irrational, he knew. She was _supposed_ to sound that way -- she needed to in order to carry out the mission successfully. She was a marvelous actress, as he had witnessed many times, and acting was all that this was. And yet…and yet, he couldn't stop himself from being swept away by a seething, uncontrollable rage, by a searing, blinding jealousy -- and by a strange feeling of powerlessness. No matter how much he hated this, there was nothing he could do. It was part of her job -- an important part of her job -- and would recur as long as Adrian saw fit. The problem was that he didn't think he could stand to watch it continue.

Until now, he had dealt with Madeline's valentine assignments by ignoring them, secure in the assumption that she despised what she was doing, that she suffered through it out of a sense of duty. But what if she didn't? He had found many of his own seduction missions to be quite pleasant, after all. Diverting. Why should she be any different? Demetrios was a good-looking man; so were many of the others.

The thought made him sick. It was a double-standard, he supposed. But the idea of her enjoying the touch of another man, even on a casual level, repulsed him, crowding his mind with unwelcome images to match the sounds he had witnessed. Images of what her face would look like, images of bodies intertwining, images of--

Enough.

Rising abruptly, he walked away from the table, crossed the floor, and began the climb up toward Adrian's office.

She looked up with an expression of surprise when he appeared at her door, setting aside the document she had been reading.

"Yes?"

"The teams are ready for the nineteenth," he announced, stepping further into the room and standing stiffly at attention.

"Good." She looked at him with a trace of puzzlement in her eyes. "Did you want something else?"

He nodded. "I'd like to lead the team to capture Demetrios myself."

She narrowed her eyes in disapproval. "Madeline and Charles will already be on site. We don't need three Level Five operatives at a single location. You're better deployed elsewhere."

"The raids on the other locations will be routine," he countered, forcing his voice into an emotionless tone. "Anyone can handle them. But Madeline and Charles will both be unarmed. My participation will ensure that things go smoothly."

"Perhaps." She cocked her head, studying him. "Is that the real reason for your request? A desire to see that things go smoothly?"

"Of course."

They stared at each other; Adrian's expression skeptical, his -- he hoped -- blank.

"I hope so," she said. "I would be most disappointed if you let personal issues influence your professional behavior. I've taught you better than that."

He remained motionless, saying nothing.

Adrian held his gaze for several moments, then smiled knowingly. "She doesn't need defending, you know."

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Paul. Really."

"That's not what this is about," he said, unable to repress a scowl at her chiding manner.

"Good," she said crisply. "I'm glad to hear it. Still, I think you need to understand something very important."

"Which is?"

She looked away for a moment, as if not quite certain how to explain herself. When she returned her gaze to him, her face was filled with a concerned expression, one that somehow seemed both tired and beseeching.

"You and I base our actions on principles," she began. "Right and wrong. Good and evil. That's what motivates us, what makes us get up every morning to continue the fight." She frowned and hesitated, her voice softening. "But you can't expect the same from her. She's not like us. She's just not capable of that kind of moral judgment. Frankly, it's unfair even to ask it of her. That would be setting her up for failure."

He opened his mouth to reply, but she held up her hand.

"She does what she's been trained to do, and she does it very well," Adrian said. "She's talented, and I believe she takes pride in her work. I honestly admire her devotion to it. She's a tremendous resource for the Section. But that's all she is. If you continue to sentimentalize her, you'll be making a grave error."

He stared at her, not sure whether to be appalled or enraged. How could she be so completely blind about a person under her command? It was baffling, aggravating -- and worrying. If she were blind about this, what else might she be mistaken about?

He chose his words with care, hiding his thoughts beneath a façade of calm. "Don't worry. I don't intend to be making any errors."

***

It was early evening and the sun still lingered, warming the room with its fading glow. Madeline sat with her back against the arm of her sofa, a book propped open on her raised knees. She had been reading the novel -- halfheartedly -- for the past hour, growing increasingly bored with the author's self-indulgent philosophizing. The book was supposed to be recreation, distraction, relaxation -- something to take her mind off her work, even if just for an evening. But she found herself unable to keep from critiquing it as she read. With each page, she found a new fault: the characters lacked motivation; the plot lacked coherence; the writing lacked artistry or wit. It was a fantasy, she concluded, by someone who had never truly witnessed life. And fantasies held no interest for her.

She snapped the book shut and set it down on the coffee table. Swinging her legs off the sofa, she stood and stretched. As tired as she was -- and as much as she had wanted to spend the evening alone, away from thoughts of Section and her mission -- she found herself at a loss for what to do.

She looked around her apartment distractedly. She had gone to painstaking efforts to create an atmosphere of harmony and comfort, selecting just the right furnishings, artwork, lighting. She had placed them precisely, arranging and rearranging everything countless times until she was satisfied. Each element -- space, color, light, texture -- was balanced, in just the right proportions, with just enough contrast and variety. There was just one thing missing, she now realized: the apartment was designed perfectly for soothing the senses, but provided nothing to occupy the mind.

Until now, that hadn't mattered. She hadn't needed distractions; in order to keep mentally busy, she simply brought work home. But at the moment, work was exactly what she wanted to escape from. She wanted -- no, needed -- to find something else to concentrate on. Something to organize, or put together, or tend -- something that would require sufficient attention to detail that it would free her mind from the Section, at least temporarily. Unfortunately, no such thing existed.

Just as she was about to head into the kitchen to see if she could find something to clean, she heard a rap on her door. She froze in place, heart lurching. It wouldn't be Paul, as he had a key; it wouldn't be a neighbor, as she kept strictly to herself. It was too late in the day for a delivery -- and besides, she was expecting nothing. There was no one, in fact, with a legitimate reason to knock.

She crossed the room swiftly, taking care to be silent. At the door, she pulled her gun from a nearby alcove and peered through the peephole. When she saw the brown-haired woman standing alone in the hallway, she breathed softly in relief and slipped the gun back into its hiding place. She unbolted the door and swung it open.

"Hello, Lisa," she said, smiling to cover her surprise.

"Hi," Lisa answered. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, not at all." She stepped back and gestured inside. "Come in."

Lisa strolled past Madeline into the apartment and waited as Madeline closed and locked the door.

"I was in the neighborhood," Lisa explained, turning to look at Madeline with an apologetic expression, "and I realized that I hadn't been by here in ages. So I thought I'd stop by and say hello, if you weren't busy."

Madeline smiled reassuringly. "I wasn't doing anything very exciting." She glanced toward the kitchen. "Would you like something? Some tea or coffee?"

"Coffee would be great."

"All right. I'll be back in a moment. Please make yourself at home."

Leaving Lisa behind in the living room, she walked into the kitchen and busied herself preparing the coffee. As the liquid gurgled and hissed, filling the room with its rich aroma, she moved about the room, opening cabinets and removing a serving tray, cups, saucers, and spoons.

She placed everything carefully on the tray, smiling to herself in perplexed amusement. Lisa needed to work on coming up with more plausible excuses. Her lie about why she had come to visit was so transparent it was almost charming. But if she hadn't simply been in the neighborhood, then what? It was quite curious.

Setting that question aside for the moment, she reached into a container on her countertop and pulled out several pastries. She arranged them in a neat circle on a plate and added the plate to the items on the tray. She then poured the coffee into a serving pot, set it on the tray, and carried the tray into the living room.

"Oh, wow," said Lisa, sitting up in her chair upon seeing Madeline enter. "You didn't need to go to that much trouble. Just a mug of coffee would have been fine."

"This isn't any trouble," she answered, and she deposited the tray onto the coffee table.

She rounded the table to join Lisa on the sofa, then she picked up the coffee pot and poured a serving into each of their cups.

"Thanks," said Lisa.

Picking up her cup and saucer, Madeline leaned back against the sofa and crossed her legs. She took small sips, watching in fascination as Lisa dug her spoon into the sugar bowl and deposited a mountainous spoonful into her coffee. Then a second. Then a third, followed by as much cream as she could pour in without the cup overflowing.

Lisa set down the cream and examined the cup with a frown, clearly wondering how to pick it up without sloshing the coffee over the sides. Hunching over the coffee table, she gingerly raised the cup to her lips and swallowed several slurps to reduce the liquid to a safer level. She set the cup back on the saucer and then settled more comfortably against the cushions of the sofa.

"So, what brought you into the neighborhood this evening?" Madeline asked, trying to keep her smile from turning into a laugh.

Lisa blinked. "Um, I was running some errands. You know, this and that."

"Mmm hmm."

Lisa reached for one of the pastries and took a bite. "Oh, this is good," she said, sounding somewhat surprised. "Real strawberries," she added approvingly.

"It's from the patisserie around the corner."

"Mmmm. Nice."

Lisa finished the remainder and brushed the crumbs off her lap. She glanced over at Madeline, and a look of discomfort suddenly shadowed her face.

"You remember lunch a few weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"We were talking about appearances, how to behave around men, um, what you need to do on a valentine missions." A tinge of pink crept across her cheeks. "Stuff like that."

"I remember."

Lisa reached for her coffee cup, took a long gulp, and set it down. She stared at the cup for several seconds before continuing. "I'd like to take you up on your offer," she said, her gaze still fixed on the coffee.

"My offer?"

"To help me, uh, learn to present myself better." Her face flushed a deep scarlet.

Madeline moved forward on the sofa, set down her cup and saucer, and turned to examine Lisa thoughtfully.

"Okay," she said, nodding. "I'd be happy to."

Lisa looked up at Madeline, her face filled with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. "Thanks."

Madeline examined Lisa in appraisal. So she had actually decided to take Madeline's advice. It was surprisingly gratifying to be listened to -- to have someone acknowledge that she had wisdom to share. And Lisa was making a very wise choice: one that Madeline was determined that she wouldn't regret. Indeed, it would be almost absurdly easy to help her; Lisa could do so much more with herself with relatively little effort. It was a shame, actually, that Madeline hadn't made the suggestion to her long before.

"We can start small," she said, thinking aloud. "First, a new hairstyle -- something a little less plain, but still easy to take care of. And light makeup, to bring out your features. I'll take you tomorrow to get some."

"Oh, I have makeup. I'll just start wearing it more often."

"No," said Madeline hastily, recalling the unflattering-looking shades Lisa had worn on past nights out. Lisa's idea of dressing up was that of the teenager she had been when she was recruited, not the woman she was now. "We need to get you something better-quality. It'll be more expensive, but trust me, it's worth it."

"Okay," Lisa answered, her tone serious.

"As for clothes and shoes, we can tackle that later. One thing at a time."

"Okay." Lisa smiled self-consciously. "Thanks for doing this. But, you know," she added, hesitating, "learning about clothing and makeup and such wasn't the main thing I wanted help with. Although I guess that's part of it."

Madeline raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

The look of discomfort returned to Lisa's face. "Well, you were talking about how the most important thing is learning how to pretend. How to manipulate and mislead people into doing things by acting a certain way. That's what I'd like advice about. How to do that."

"How to manipulate and mislead people," Madeline repeated, staring at Lisa in disbelief. "You want me to teach you _that_."

"That seemed to me to be the most practical thing I could learn."

Madeline sat back against the sofa, a dull feeling opening up inside her. Lisa had certainly come to the right person. Who better to approach, after all, than the expert in pretense and performance?

"There's not much to it," she said. "Everyone has a weakness -- something they want or fear. All you have to do is find out what it is and exploit it. Use it as a means of controlling them, or of distracting them from what you're really up to."

"But how can you bring yourself to do it if it's something…unpleasant?"

Madeline felt herself stiffen, as her thoughts began to stray, against her will, back to the mission. "You can do anything if the goal is important enough," she said firmly.

"Yeah," said Lisa, her expression oddly sad. "I guess you probably can." She made a brief face. "Do you have to psych yourself up somehow?"

"No," Madeline answered, her voice unintentionally sharp. "Don't think about it at all. Just do it. You can indulge in the luxury of thinking afterwards." She paused. "If you do it long enough, you stop thinking altogether."

Or so she hoped.

***

The drone of the engine sent a subtle vibration through the plane's body; after several hours, it had almost lulled Charles to sleep. He leaned back into the cushioned leather seat, his head jerking every few moments as he struggled to remain awake.

One last trip, he reminded himself. The constant flights -- even on the luxuriously appointed private aircraft that they used as part of their cover -- were starting to exhaust him. Now, at last, they would be over. Two days earlier, Demetrios had finally divulged the last of the customer information they needed; this visit, then, would be to take him into custody. After that, there would be no more flights to Greece -- and no more forced companionship with Madeline.

He took a long breath and moved his legs, stretching. Without really intending to, he glanced across the aisle to where Madeline sat. She was staring, motionless and silent, out the window; if she noticed him looking at her, she chose to ignore it. They hadn't exchanged a word since they boarded the plane -- and even before then, they had spoken only when completely necessary. Uncomfortable, he looked away, afraid that she would look up and meet his gaze.

Within Section itself, he had been avoiding her as much as possible. But he hadn't been able to do so completely; each time he had to interact with her, he was overwhelmed with sickening feelings of anger, resentment, and shame. They never seemed to fade: the wound reopened, fresh, every time he saw her. But maybe now -- now that the mission was ending, and their grotesque and embarrassing parody of a love affair would soon be over -- he could concentrate on putting her out of his mind. He could find a way, somehow, to forget her, to forget how desperately he had wanted her -- still wanted her, even now, when he knew it was hopeless.

What a pathetic fool he was. Unable to restrain himself, he stole one more glance across the aisle. Madeline hadn't moved, hadn't changed expression; she sat with a stony look on her face that Charles, with a sudden start, recognized as matching his own. So absorbed in his own suffering, he hadn't paid attention before. But looking at her, it was obvious: she, too, was exhausted, uncomfortable, and miserable.

As he stared at her, a wave of guilt crashed over him. How could he be angry with her? This wasn't her fault, after all. She hadn't sought his affection, hadn't led him on -- hadn't done anything to mislead him or invite this upon herself. It wasn't her fault he fell in love with her, any more than it was her fault she didn't happen to feel the same way. Love didn't work like that: it simply happened -- or it didn't. Unfortunately, in her case, it didn't. But that didn't warrant him hating her for it, sulking like a spurned schoolboy, wallowing in bitter resentment.

_I'm a better man than this_, he thought, growing disgusted with himself.

She wasn't interested in his love. So be it. Perhaps, however, she would accept his friendship, if he were decent enough to offer it.

In any event, they couldn't go on not speaking to each other. Section was far too small for that. And as he had been the one chiefly responsible for what had happened between them, it was his responsibility to fix it. Now, before it was too late.

He took a deep breath, stifling his nervousness. "You look tired," he ventured hesitantly.

She looked up, a startled expression passing briefly across her face. Then she shrugged. "We've been doing a great deal of traveling," she said, her tone aloof.

"Yes, it does wear one down after a while." He suppressed a frown, concentrating on trying to sound normal. "Are you scheduled for any down time after this?"

"I don't know yet."

"I'm due to lead a team in Tunisia the day after tomorrow." He gave a wry laugh. "Apparently, Adrian considers sleep to be a luxury I don't need."

She smiled in return; it was faint, even weak, but it was the first smile he had received from her in weeks, aside from the sugar-coated ones she bestowed when pretending to be Annette Pierce. "You seem to get a disproportionate number of our Middle Eastern missions."

"I think that's a legacy of my past life."

She looked perplexed.

"My life before the Section, that is," he explained hastily, realizing that his choice of words had sounded a bit strange. "I served in the British military, you see. Mostly in that part of the world. Adrian seems to think it made me an expert. Bloody Lawrence of Arabia or something."

"I see." Madeline's smile grew broader. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. "And it didn't?"

"Not really," he replied. Then he chuckled. "Actually, I do have an interest in the region, but not in anything that would be useful for the Section."

"What do you mean?"

"Ancient Egypt. It's a bit of a hobby of mine. Started years ago, when I was doing my officer's training. I wrote a thesis on the military campaigns of Thutmose the Third, and I've been fascinated with the history ever since."

"Really? How interesting."

To his surprise, the look on her face seemed genuine. Most people he mentioned the topic to reacted with polite boredom -- at best.

"Most people think it's all about mummies and pyramids," he explained, growing more enthusiastic. "Cleopatra, King Tut, and mysterious curses. That sort of nonsense."

She laughed slightly. "I take it it isn't."

"Not at all. The history of the Egyptian dynasties is as rich and dramatic as anything in Shakespeare. War, conquest, murder, intrigue, betrayal -- all set against the flowering of one of the greatest civilizations in history. It…." He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. Surely she didn't want to hear him prattle on like this.

"It what?"

He cleared his throat self-consciously. "It helps me keep things in perspective. The Egyptians were the most advanced civilization of their time -- awe-inspiring in their grandeur and their glory. They struggled, and fought, and sacrificed; they subdued their enemies and built their monuments; they thought they could achieve immortality. But now…." He paused, frowning. "Everything they did is insignificant to us, except as a matter of curiosity or academic interest. None of their accomplishments really mattered in the long run."

Madeline listened to him quietly, her expression growing reflective. He smiled sadly.

"The two of us are just footsoldiers in the service of yet another civilization," he said. "Perhaps what we do is equally insignificant."

For a moment, she seemed stricken, her eyes widening with a look of dismay. Then she sat up straighter and her expression hardened, as if she had wiped all doubts away by sheer force of will.

"You can't allow yourself to think that way," she said.

"Why?"

She stared at him, her focus sharpening. "What we do has a global impact," she said. "It matters now, and it matters to future generations. We're influencing the course of world history. How can that be insignificant?" Her words were concentrated in tone, colored with an unsettling blend of determination, persuasion and accusation.

Watching her, seeing the fervent, almost zealous spark that lit her face, he recognized -- with shock -- that she truly believed what she was saying. She had bought into Adrian's grandiose vision, whether she realized it or not. That vision, once imposed from the outside, had become her own.

There were moments when he believed in it, too, although they came less frequently with age. Madeline, however, seemed to need to believe it -- she couldn't see the transience of their lives as a relief, as the lifting of a burden, the way he now did. To her, such a thought would have been demoralizing, devastating. Instead, she grasped at a faith -- wholehearted and unquestioning -- in the utter importance of their cause. It was a conviction that he envied -- and one that he didn't have the heart to challenge.

"You're quite right," he said, forcing a cheerful note. "I'm being gloomy. That happens when I'm tired."

He looked out the window and noticed that they had descended several thousand feet.

"We're close to landing," he remarked. "Time to take down that bastard Demetrios for good."

They held a look, and she finally smiled. "I can't wait."


	12. Chapter 12

It was a labyrinth, Paul decided. Even after studying the blueprint of Demetrios's residence for the past several days, he couldn't quite make sense of the layout. There were no direct paths from one end of the building to another; instead, he had to dodge left, then right, then back again, painstakingly moving from room to room and hallway to hallway.

_The son-of-a-bitch did it on purpose_, he thought in aggravation. Slowing down unwanted visitors would buy Demetrios time to escape. Or to prepare for a fight.

Turning left again, Paul rounded a corner into yet another hallway, straight into the path of a heavyset bodyguard. Reacting instinctively, Paul fired twice, then he stepped over the crumpled body to jog down the corridor.

He moved as rapidly as he could -- running, ducking, scrambling, shooting -- all while monitoring the progress of the team and barking curt orders when needed. Pausing inside an empty room, he caught his breath while he loaded a new clip, half listening to the battles raging throughout the house, and half listening over his transmitter to the sounds from the study. There, Demetrios and two assistants hid, awaiting the arrival of the invaders. Or rather, Demetrios, two assistants -- and two Section operatives.

Madeline and Charles were unarmed and outnumbered, locked in a room with three desperate men. It was up to Paul to get them to safety.

Their predicament, however, was part of the profile. When the retrieval of Demetrios had inexplicably become the mission's top priority, Adrian ordered Madeline and Charles to be present when the assault began. With them there to watch him, he would have no opportunity to slip away, and they could prevent any operative from killing him by mistake.

The only problem was that they couldn't carry guns. Demetrios's security detail patted them down and searched their bags upon each visit, and while they had successfully smuggled in bugging devices and detectors, heavy weapons were out of the question.

The amendments to the profile perplexed Paul. Why were they bringing Demetrios in at all? The original profile called for his elimination, along with his associates. Changing the profile placed Madeline and Charles in significant danger, for no good reason that Paul could fathom. But Adrian had been insistent, granting only one concession -- although she deemed guns, knives, and other weapons too risky, she did allow Madeline and Charles to carry small syringes containing a fast-acting sedative, carefully concealed in their clothing.

If they had been alone with Demetrios, the sedative might have been sufficient. Facing three armed men, they were essentially defenseless.

That left them only one option: to pretend to be as surprised by the raid as Demetrios was, to convince him they had nothing to do with the assault now taking place. As Paul listened over his transmitter, they shouted at Demetrios, accusing one of his bodyguards of having sold them all out. The assistants reacted angrily, defending their colleague; the high pitch of their voices betrayed their increasing panic.

Demetrios seemed -- by his statements, at least -- to believe Madeline and Charles. But there was something in his voice -- a cold grimness that set Paul's gut churning with anxiety. Then, when he heard Demetrios speak again, he knew.

"Annette, come stand behind me," Demetrios commanded. "It's not safe for you out in the open like that. And you, Geoffrey, get behind Kostis."

Paul's pulse quickened. Despite Demetrios's profession of concern for their welfare, he was placing Charles and Madeline in a perfect position to be held hostage.

There was a long silence over the transmitter.

"I think Annette's safer in the corner there," said Charles, finally, clearly recognizing Demetrios's intent. "And if you have an extra gun, you should give it to me. I'll help you hold them off."

The transmitter was quiet again, as Paul shot another guard in the chest and broke out into a run. Then there was a buzz of static.

"You'll go where I tell you," Demetrios said, his voice distorted but the menace clear.

Reaching the door to the study, Paul halted, gun ready, heart pounding. Another operative joined him: a young man, newly-added to Paul's team, perspiring and panting.

"Take out the assistants first," Paul whispered. "You go left, I'll go right. If you have to shoot the target, wound him only."

The man nodded.

On Paul's count, they broke down the door and burst into the study. Paul spun right, just in time to shoot a man standing next to Charles. From his left, he heard the other operative fire; a split second afterwards, another three shots rang out from the back of the room.

As Charles jumped to snatch up the dead man's gun, Paul whirled around. The second assistant lay sprawled on the floor -- as did the young operative. Demetrios stood behind a desk, his arm outstretched and shaking, clutching a gun that he pointed at Madeline. She was several feet away, too far even to consider disarming him; she regarded him with an expression of icy disdain.

Demetrios looked nervously back and forth between Paul and Charles. "If either one of you moves, I'll kill her," he rasped.

Paul felt the muscles in his face twitch in fury. He fingered his trigger, struggling to resist the urge to send a bullet exploding through the other man's skull.

Damn Adrian and her stupid orders.

"My orders are to bring you in alive, no matter what," Paul said through gritted teeth. "Personnel losses are expected."

Demetrios blinked, glanced back at Madeline, then back at Paul.

"However," continued Paul, breaking out in a chilly smile, "my orders said nothing about not blowing your balls off. And that's exactly what I'll do if you don't set your gun down now."

Demetrios paled. Muttering in Greek, he lowered the gun. He placed it on the desk in front of him and raised his hands.

"Come forward slowly," Paul ordered.

Demetrios obeyed, as Madeline stepped toward the desk and retrieved his gun.

"Stop," Paul said sharply. "Turn around and put your hands on your head."

Demetrios did so, and Paul holstered his gun and began searching him. When he found no weapons, he pulled on the man's shoulder to yank him back around, ready to march him out of the building and into custody.

But then, quite by accident, he caught a glimpse into Demetrios's eyes. They were dark, almost black, and spread wide in fear. The recognition of that fear slammed into Paul like a physical force. The man's terror thrilled him; he could feel it, smell it, almost taste it. It gave him a dizzying feeling of righteousness -- and power.

Power. After being powerless for all these weeks, power was suddenly returned to him. His sense of control over his destiny was restored. He savored the feeling as it swept over him, burning him with its energy, triggering a sudden hunger for retribution -- a craving that surged, then burst into mindless fury.

Unable to restrain himself, he slammed his fist into Demetrios's face. Upon contact, his fist exploded in pain, the skin sliced and torn by the other man's collapsing teeth. But the injury only increased his rage. As Demetrios staggered to one knee, his face streaming with blood, Paul kicked him savagely in the ribs.

"That's for even thinking about shooting her," he snarled, falling upon Demetrios and pummeling the man in a frenzy.

Demetrios curled up on the ground, huddling into a protective ball, as Paul pounded him mercilessly. Slowly, the man weakened and dropped his defenses; Paul grunted and hit even harder -- at the nose, the jaw, the ribs, the sternum -- throwing his full weight into every punch, his hands slick with blood.

"For God's sake, what are you doing?"

Charles's voice registered in Paul's mind, vaguely. But it was a nuisance to be ignored, a distraction from the steady rhythm of violence that he had given himself to. Beneath him, Demetrios grew limp, his head lolling from side to side with the force of each blow.

Paul continued at his task, single-minded and relentless, until he felt a force pulling him away. He looked up, disoriented, to see Charles wrestling him to the floor, poised to stick him with the syringe full of sedatives.

"Have you lost your mind?" asked Charles, kneeling over him with a look of dismayed astonishment. "You were about to kill him."

Paul shook himself back into awareness and looked slowly around the room. Demetrios lay still, his face streaming crimson. Paul looked back at Charles in confusion, but Charles had turned away, shouting orders for a medical team at the operatives who had crowded outside the door of the study.

Paul closed his eyes and exhaled forcefully, suddenly aware of the pounding in his chest and the stabbing pain in his hand. When he opened his eyes again, he started. Standing in front of him was Madeline, looking down with an expression of horrified fascination -- first at Demetrios, then at him. As operatives huddled around Demetrios and lifted him onto a stretcher, she continued to stare at Paul. She stood like that, motionless, until Demetrios was removed from the room. Then, without a word, she turned and walked out.

***

Hearing a noise at the door, Adrian looked up from her desk. Madeline stood at the entrance to the office, still in the sandals and sleeveless white dress she had worn for the mission.

Adrian gestured for her to enter. "Explain yourself," she demanded as Madeline approached.

Madeline halted, looking disconcerted. She took a few more steps, stopping just short of the chairs in front of the desk, and assumed a stance at attention, hands clasped behind her. She seemed to be struggling to maintain a blank expression, but traces of anxiety and confusion shone through.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said hesitantly.

Adrian folded her arms across her chest. "Our objective couldn't have been any clearer: retrieve Tassos Demetrios for interrogation. Yet Medical informs me that he's suffered irreversible brain damage and will be of no use to us whatsoever." She paused, allowing the news to sink in. "I want to know why."

"I can tell you what I saw happen," offered Madeline.

"I _know_ what happened, Madeline. I've spent the past three hours debriefing Charles and the members of Paul's team. I hardly need to hear yet another blow-by-blow account. What I want from you is an explanation."

"I'm not sure I can give you one."

"Then you disappoint me," said Adrian. "A profiler ought to be able to read a situation like this. I thought you were much better than that."

Madeline swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"Of course, you _are_ better than that, aren't you?" Adrian smiled knowingly. "You know very well what happened. The reason you don't want to admit to it is because you know it's your fault."

Madeline raised her eyebrows. "My fault?" she asked, her tone astonished.

"Quite so," Adrian snapped. "Your behavior on this mission was appalling. You acted reluctant and uncomfortable. Unhappy with what you were doing. It triggered some sort of protective instinct in Paul that overrode his common sense."

Madeline stared at Adrian for several moments, then averted her gaze.

"Do you know he reviewed the surveillance of you with Demetrios?"

Madeline looked up again, her eyes wide in shock.

"Yes, it's true," Adrian continued. "I only found out about it from Jules this afternoon. Had I known, I never would have allowed him to lead the team in Athens."

An expression of sickened understanding seeped across Madeline's face, turning it ashen.

"This cannot be allowed to recur. Is that understood?"

Madeline nodded.

Madeline's affirmative answer was a concession -- an admission that she agreed with Adrian's interpretation of events, that she believed that she might exert some negative influence over Paul's behavior. It should have been a victory of sorts. But to Adrian's surprise, Madeline's rapid capitulation only made her angrier.

"It's not just a matter of Paul's reaction, you know." Adrian allowed her voice to sharpen. "It's yours, even more so."

Madeline said nothing, but her expression was questioning.

"Your original profile called for Connie to play the part of Annette Pierce," Adrian said. "Why did you do that?" Her tone was innocent, but the question was anything but.

Madeline took a deep breath. "Connie bears a strong resemblance to Annette. I believed she would be a convincing substitute."

Adrian shook her head disapprovingly. "As I explained to you once before, physical resemblance was of minimal importance. Setting that aside, what were Connie's qualifications?"

"She's an experienced Level Two operative with considerable success at valentine missions. I thought the choice was entirely appropriate."

"Connie's performance as an operative has been exemplary. But her targets have been lower-level individuals. She's never dealt with anyone as sophisticated as Demetrios, nor have her assignments lasted more than a few days at a time. Demetrios would have seen through Connie in an _instant_."

Madeline reddened and looked away.

"You have more undercover experience than any other operative in Section," Adrian said. "You were the only person even remotely qualified to handle a mission of this magnitude. Yet you failed to assign yourself because you were uncomfortable with the scenario. Correct?"

She waited, giving Madeline a chance to respond, to deny what she was saying. She did not.

"And then when I revised the profile to assign you, you performed reluctantly and made your dislike of the situation abundantly clear to everyone else on the mission." Adrian's voice became acid. "You allowed your feelings to affect your work. Detrimentally."

"It won't happen again," said Madeline.

"I should certainly hope not."

She examined the other woman, staring until she was satisfied that her point had been made clear. There was no resistance in Madeline's demeanor, no defiance or even resentment -- only chastened acceptance and guilt. Watching her, Adrian felt an unexpected touch of pity.

"Your job involves writing profiles that require others to perform extremely dangerous or distasteful activities," she said, softening her manner slightly. "Do you think they'll have faith in those profiles if they see that you exempt yourself from carrying out tasks you dislike?"

"No," Madeline admitted.

"You see, my dear," Adrian explained, "those in the rank and file need to see that you're willing to do whatever it takes to achieve mission objectives. If anything, you need to be harder on yourself than you are on them. If they see that, then they'll trust that what you're asking them to do is necessary."

"Yes, ma'am."

There was a new-found conviction in Madeline's voice that hadn't been there a moment before. Interesting. Perhaps there was hope for Madeline yet. Despite her deep-seated weaknesses and baser tendencies, she seemed to be willing to improve herself. To put the Section first, in a way that few others would.

"You have potential, Madeline," Adrian said. "Perhaps more than I gave you credit for. But to reach it, you need to learn to be uncompromising with yourself. Force yourself to do what you least want to do. What you're most afraid of. Only then can you demand that of others."

She looked into the other woman's eyes. Madeline returned the gaze unflinchingly.

"You're right," she said solemnly. "Thank you."

***

The doorway pulled back with excruciating slowness. When it was halfway open, Lisa strode forward, tugging on her companion's hand to pull him inside. Tipsy, he staggered and grabbed her around the waist; his weight almost tipped her off balance, her ankles nearly buckling in the uncomfortable high-heeled shoes.

She had never felt so happy to step through Section's entryway -- not even this afternoon, when she had returned from eliminating one of Demetrios's buyers in Belgium, having led her very first team. That had been a moment of pride, a return in triumph. But this, this was relief -- relief that one of the most awful evenings of her life was nearly over, and that she had been able to get through it without showing her disgust.

Madeline had been right, as it turned out. When the goal was important enough, Lisa could do anything.

Even dress up like a bimbo and ask Jules out on a date.

"Ouf," he said, walking unsteadily and gripping her waist so hard it pinched. "So all this time, with the computers, you were just trying to get my attention?"

"Yeah," she answered sheepishly, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and pressing into him. "You're just so good with computers, I figured that was the best way to make an impression. You know, learn how to do something that you would respect. Even though I'd never be at your level," she added hastily.

He laughed and shook his head. "Hmm, you went to such trouble! But I should have known what you really wanted with all those transfer requests." He looked down at her and smirked. "Hey, I might be more favorably inclined toward your application now. It's nice to have, uh, _friends_ to work with, eh?"

She forced herself to look away, afraid that she might blurt out an unthinking response. _You slimy toad_, she thought. _I wouldn't be interested in you if I'd had a lobotomy._

As they reached Comm, they disentangled themselves. Jules fell awkwardly into a chair; Lisa leaned against a table and folded her arms.

"So is it true, what they say about you?" she asked, trying to sound flirtatious.

He raised his eyebrows and placed his hand on his chest in mock surprise. "About me? You mean the rumor about all the satisfied women? Oh, it's definitely true." He leered. "But maybe you'd like to judge for yourself."

Lisa forced her disgust aside and smiled. "Supposedly, you can hack into any of the other Sections at will. You're too good to stop, no matter what security measures they take."

"Oh, that rumor." He leaned back in his chair and plunked his feet on top of a nearby table, his expression smug. "Of course. I'm the best in all the Sections."

She placed her hands on her hips in a mocking gesture. "Oh, come on. No one's _that_ good."

His smile vanished, replaced by a pout. "But I am."

"Look, you don't have to say that to impress me. I like you anyway."

He pulled his feet down and sat forward, turning his chair toward the computer on the desk next to him.

"I will show you," he said, his face clouding angrily. "I can access any network anywhere in the organization. I can even modify their data without them knowing it."

"No, no, Jules," she said, holding up her hand, her voice tinged with false concern, "you don't have to do this. It's too dangerous. I'm sorry I brought it up."

He glared up at her. "Pull up a chair. I will show you what I can and cannot do," he said with a scowl. "And besides, it's not dangerous, not for me."

Slowly, feigning reluctance, she pulled over a chair and sat next to him.

"Okay, if you want to prove you're a hotshot, hack into Section Four. I hear they have the tightest security of all. Tighter than ours."

"Section Four is nothing," he scoffed. "Amateurs, completely. They are totally useless."

He began typing, his fingers dancing over the keys. Lisa watched every keystroke avidly, committing the commands to memory.

As the monitor repeatedly flashed "Access Denied," Jules began mumbling to himself in French. He typed alternative commands, tried different access points, and changed his passwords, as Lisa began to wonder if she had gotten him too drunk to think straight.

For ten minutes, everything he tried failed, and his muttering began to transform into loud cursing. Then, his face red with frustration, he typed yet another command and hit the keys so hard Lisa thought he would break them. Waiting, he stared at the screen, frowning intently as if he could intimidate the computer into cooperating.

For a minute, there was nothing. Then, something new:

_Logon successful  
Request directory:_

Jules smashed his fist down on the desk in triumph. "Voilà! You see!"

He beamed at Lisa, who clapped him on the back.

"Wow, that is so cool," she said breathlessly. "You're amazing!"

He puffed his cheeks out in several loud exhalations, calming himself as his face returned to its normal color. Then he turned to her. "Okay, my friend," he said cheerfully, "shall we go on a tour of Section Four?"

She paused in apparent thought. "You said you could modify their data, right?"

"Of course."

"How about creating a non-existent operative? Just as a joke."

He snickered. "Oh, that's very good. Yes, all right. Let's go to their personnel directory, then."

"Fantastic."

He typed again and brought up a long list of names. "So," he said, winking, "who is this operative?"

"Hmmmmm, let's call her Patricia Gould."

He typed then name, then looked up. "Age?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Okay." He paused as he entered the information. "Oh, wait," he said, frowning, "most of the people there are children. We should make her younger."

"No, no," said Lisa, grabbing his arm. "They have teachers there, don't they? Make her a teacher."

"Mmm, all right, that should work." He typed again. "Done."

As Lisa watched over his shoulder, Jules filled in every datafield, following her suggestions. In a few short moments, Section Four had a new staff member. One whose vital statistics matched Lisa's exactly.

"Okay, finished!" Jules sat back again, laughing. "It will take them weeks to notice this, if ever. They are idiots, without any talent."

"What'll happen if they do?" Lisa glanced at Jules, trying to hide her concern.

Jules shrugged and made a face. "Nothing."

"You won't get into trouble?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" He smirked, and brought up one of the datafields again. "You see, there," he said, pointing, "where it indicates 'entered by JG'?"

Lisa leaned forward and looked, and her eyes widened. "Those are your initials! Why did you do that?"

"So they know it's only me, and not a real security breach," he said, giving her a knowing look. "If they see I've accessed the system, they'll just delete the file and keep quiet about it. It is too embarrassing for them to admit I outwitted them." He smiled. "I do this sort of thing all the time."

Lisa laughed -- this time a genuine laugh, and not a forced one. "You mean as long as you put your initials on all the files you modify, they'll never report it?"

"Exactly." He grinned triumphantly. Then his expression changed, as he looked her up and down more seriously. "Ah, but now that I've finished showing you clever party tricks, maybe I can show you something more interesting."

"Oh, gosh," Lisa replied, "you know, I'm feeling a little sick right now. I think I drank more than I should have." She giggled, putting her hand on her stomach. "But we'll definitely do this again real soon."

His face fell in disappointment. "But--"

She leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss. "Thanks for a great evening." She smiled and stood and walked off, leaving him shaking his head.

When she rounded the corner and disappeared from view, she leaned weakly against the wall.

_Holy crap_, she thought. _That was a lot easier than I thought._

Of course, the hard part was just beginning.

***

The tea sat, untouched and neglected -- a bedtime ritual that seemed to bring Madeline no enjoyment this night. She hadn't really had any desire for it, but had made it out of force of habit; now, it languished on her coffee table, the scent of hibiscus slowly fading as it grew cold.

She had operated the entire evening out of habit, her mind shifting into a thoughtless autopilot from the moment she stepped through her door. She had showered, changed, eaten, washed dishes, thumbed through her small pile of mail, performed minor household tasks -- all while completely numb.

Being numb was better than allowing herself to think. When she tried to do that, her mind crowded with too many recollections. Images of Paul beating Demetrios to unconsciousness. The sound of Adrian's voice, telling her it was her fault. And worst of all, the memory of the thrill she had felt when she watched the blood spray from Demetrios's face. The sense of being rescued and avenged. A feeling of relief, so powerful that it had grown into joy -- and then turned suddenly dark, when she realized what the feeling really was.

She had wanted Paul to kill him.

Standing in that room, watching Paul rear back and then drive his fists into Demetrios, she had forgotten why they were there. The mission profile had ceased to matter, had ceased even to exist. Instead, she was entranced by the steady pattern of the blows; by the arc of Paul's arm as he twisted into each punch; by the way Demetrios's entire body shook, more and more limply; by the muffled smack of fists landing on flesh. It was horrible; it was repulsive -- and it was beautiful.

Beautiful.

Paul was killing a man with his bare hands, because of her, and she found it beautiful.

The implications of that realization were too disturbing to contemplate. So she pulled back, forced all thoughts from her mind, and became numb instead.

Numb was tolerable. Numb allowed her to sit, calmly, on her sofa, staring at the pattern on her curtains. Her gaze traveled up and down, following the blue, threadlike loop. It twisted endlessly across the dull gold fabric, soothing in its repetition -- first curving down sharply, then looping up and over, twisting sideways, and then down again. Over and over and over it curled, a visual mantra across a heavy cloth backdrop. She couldn't look away from it -- was afraid that if she did, she would start thinking again.

She didn't shift her gaze when she heard her door unlock and swing open. She didn't turn to see whose footsteps crossed the room toward her, didn't even look up when she felt the sofa sink down under someone else's weight.

She simply continued staring at the curtains, and when she spoke, it was in nearly a whisper.

"What have you done?"

There was a silence of several seconds.

"I don't know," Paul answered quietly.

It was then that she finally looked at him. He sat inches away from her, his forehead creased with a sharp frown, his eyes shining with barely repressed thoughts and emotions.

"I couldn't stop myself," he admitted.

She stared at him, unable to look away from those pale eyes, remembering the look of triumph, of determined cruelty, that had filled them as he knocked Demetrios to the floor -- and remembering the awe and admiration she had felt upon seeing it. He gazed back at her, unblinking. There was no hint of cruelty now, only sad resignation.

"You listened to the surveillance," she said, the words slipping out unintended. She didn't want to talk about this, didn't even want to think about it, but the statement almost seemed to voice itself.

His eyelids fluttered briefly, then he closed them, frowning harder. "Yes."

"Is that why you hurt him?"

His eyes snapped open. She could feel his body tense next to her; the air around them seemed to sizzle.

"Yes." His voice rasped with suppressed emotion; his answer, and the sharp look that accompanied it, was at once a challenge, an accusation, and a plea.

Uncomfortable, she dropped her gaze away from his eyes. Trying to decide how to respond, she stared at his lap -- blankly, at first, but then her attention focused on his hands. They rested on his thighs, swollen and dark with bruises, the knuckles scraped raw. The back of one hand was heavily bandaged where he seemed to have a gash; the other bore angry red scratches. But it wasn't the injuries that kept her staring, that captured her in a feeling of fascination and dread.

It was the gold wedding band on one of his fingers.

She reached down to pick up his hand. Holding it, brushing a finger across the ring, she looked up at him.

"What is this?"

"It's the ring I wore when I was pretending to be Pierce." His voice was tight and strained.

"Why are you still wearing it?"

His expression grew in strength, as if his feelings had bubbled up to the surface, stopping just short of overflowing.

"Because I liked having it on," he said, his voice defensive, almost angry. "Because I could pretend it was a real one."

She frowned. "But--"

"Stop," he said. "I've answered enough questions. I'm tired of explaining myself." A strange look seeped into his eyes -- a seething brew of hurt, anger, guilt, and resentment that startled her in its intensity. "Besides," he added bitterly, "you never explain yourself to me."

Stung, she let go of his hand.

He grimaced and looked away. "Go ahead. Tell me I shouldn't wear it. Tell me I shouldn't have listened to the surveillance. Tell me I shouldn't have attacked Demetrios. Tell me all the things I've done wrong." He turned back toward her, his expression accusatory. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

She swallowed with difficulty as a lump grew in her throat. "Adrian blames me, you know."

He blinked rapidly, the look of anger subsiding. "What?"

"Everything you've done. She says it's my fault." She returned her gaze to the curtains, unable to continue looking at him. "I think she's probably right."

She felt him place his hand on her chin, pulling firmly to turn her face back toward him.

"Don't listen to her," he said. "She doesn't understand anything. I won't _allow_ you to believe her. I take responsibility for my own actions."

Before she could answer, he kissed her, pressing against her so forcefully that she fell backwards against the sofa cushions. He leaned in even farther, his lips hard against hers, insistent and demanding. Taken by surprise, she resisted at first, then softened, opening her mouth and raising her hands to cup his face. As she relaxed beneath him, he grew even more aggressive -- his kiss, his tightening embrace, even the movement of his body was hungry, ferocious. He clamped himself around her, like an owner reclaiming stolen property; he pressed down on her heavily, as if she could never surrender to him enough.

Pinned in the corner between several cushions, she shifted, moving her arms so she could run her hands up and down his back. The movement caused her to fall even further backwards; she slid, the cushions spilling onto the floor, until she was prone. Paul pounced on her, kicking the coffee table in his haste. She heard the teacup clatter and smash as it tumbled off the edge.

He continued his assault, his chest hard against hers, his grip unyielding, his kiss relentless. Captive, she sank down into the sofa under him, surrounded by his presence, forgetting there was anything outside it. As his body began to warm, his shirt molded to his back with a faint layer of perspiration; through the fabric, she could feel his muscles flex and release when he moved. She traced her fingers in light circles to match the movement of his tongue on her throat, then dug them sharply into his back when he began to use his teeth. He flinched and clasped her harder; gasping, she responded in kind, which drove him into even more of a frenzy. They continued, each intensifying their attack, until they were both clutching at each other in a mindless desperation.

Eventually, their movements slowed, becoming calmer. Paul loosened his hold, then sat up and leaned back on his haunches, reaching down to ease her nightgown up and off. Then he just looked at her, for what seemed like an endless moment -- he said nothing, did nothing, as if he were waiting for something she couldn't understand. She closed her eyes and frowned, her breathing rapid and shallow, willing him to touch her, afraid she would lose her mind if he didn't. When she finally felt his hands on her, her pulse surged almost painfully. It was what she wanted, but it wasn't enough.

She wanted to seize him and pull him toward her, wanted to melt around him -- wanted to possess him completely, and him to possess her. She wanted these things violently -- with a desire that raged beyond control, verging into irrationality. The feeling was animalistic, instinctive, and…familiar.

Horribly familiar.

It was precisely the way she had felt earlier in the day, when she had wished for a man's death. It was that same craving, that same need erupting from somewhere deep within. The similarity of the emotion, the sense of wanting something so much that she threw away all reason, gave her a sudden chill.

She opened her eyes. Paul stroked her lightly, gently -- and yet his hands were so swollen that he couldn't straighten his fingers, the harsh color of the bruises and scratches a brutal contrast to her pale skin. His hands explored her body, their touch lingering and delicate, but only hours before they had been weapons of death. Each mark on his fingers, each swollen knuckle was a reminder of his rage, of his recklessness, of his loss of control.

And of hers.

Passion, like the rage it triggered, was a loss of control. And in Section, loss of control meant death.

Or maybe something even worse.

Passion had turned them into something monstrous: into the sort of man who engaged in bloodthirsty vengeance, and the sort of woman who took pleasure in seeing him do so. Passion, then, was a dangerous, irrational, corrupting force. It would be the means of their death or destruction. And so it had to stop.

It _had_ to stop.

She sat up suddenly and pushed Paul's hands away, uncertain of her own intent. Somehow she found herself crawling towards him, her body seeming to move for its own reasons, following some programmed response that no longer required conscious awareness. She reached him, pushed him backwards until his back rested against the arm of the sofa, and snaked her arms around his neck. She rubbed against him provocatively, breathed in his ear, brushed her fingers through his hair, tongued along his earlobe -- then slid her hand down his chest, past his stomach, across his belt -- and listened to him groan.

His movements, now, were under her command. Even when he touched her, it was where her movements had suggested; his reaction, their pace, even her own arousal, were regulated, not spontaneous. It was then that she understood what she was doing.

She was performing.

She had retreated into the mechanical physicality of the act, where it was safe. Where he would react like any other man, when and how she directed. Where she could take her own pleasure, too -- but only because she allowed it.

She had stripped his clothes off and begun to ride him, crying out with physical release, calling out his name, demanding that he touch her and moaning deep in her throat when he complied. The more vocal she became, the more his expression changed -- first delighted, then confused, then almost dismayed. But in the end, the dismay gave way to desire, and he allowed her to take over. After all, he was a man -- and she knew what he really wanted.

Like the others, he wanted a performance. Except that this time so did she.

Performance had always been her weapon. At times, it had also seemed like a trap. Now, however, it was her refuge. Her universe.

Her identity.


	13. Chapter 13

Paul fished his lighter out of his pocket and flicked it open, cupping his hand to shield the flame. He lit the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and inhaled deeply, then he leaned against the wrought-iron railing of Madeline's balcony to gaze out over the narrow street below. Aside from a single car that splashed through the puddles of the prior night's rain, the street was empty. But the cool air was full of distant noises: a city waking up, preparing breakfast, heading for work.

He turned his head to glance into the room behind him. The morning light pooled brightly on the polished floor, its cheerful warmth inching slowly toward the bed in the corner. There, Madeline lay completely still. Her back was to him, and the white sheets twisted around her haphazardly, a bare leg sticking out from underneath. It almost looked as if she weren't breathing -- as if she were frozen, waiting for the sunlight to touch her and bring her back to life. He had never seen her sleep quite so soundly -- and he had never slept so fitfully himself.

He had come to her the night before, not knowing quite what he wanted. At first, he thought it was to explain his actions, to apologize and ask forgiveness. But when she looked at him, her eyes full of disapproval and accusation, he had felt a strange compulsion to defend himself, to turn the tables and demand an explanation from her. To seize her by the shoulders and force her to acknowledge what they both knew: that what he had done was _right_, even though it was wrong.

It wasn't really forgiveness he had wanted, after all. It was understanding. And for a moment, he thought he had received it.

He had felt it when they clung together, clutching and grasping so fiercely that he was afraid they would tear each other apart. It was an instant of both terror and bliss, of complete recognition -- when they looked into each other's eyes and understood each other perfectly. When they saw the best and the worst in each other and accepted it, because they found the same within themselves. When their hurts, fears, desires -- and even their darkest rages -- merged and became one.

Then he blinked, and it was gone.

The next thing he knew, he was with a different person entirely: no longer raw and open, she was smooth, delicate, and evasive. Like a melody that shifted key halfway through, the change was subtle, but completely disorienting -- almost frightening, but hypnotically seductive. It had enchanted him, pulled him in and finally enveloped him, until he succumbed and forgot everything else.

Now, in the light of day, he wasn't sure just what had happened.

_This is crazy_, he thought, stubbing out his cigarette vigorously. He was imagining things, allowing his anxiety about what Adrian would do to spill over into everything.

Adrian had dismissed him from duty the moment they returned from Greece -- without explanation, without a reprimand, without even a chance to debrief. Her refusal to speak with him was unprecedented, and yet he had been allowed to go home, instead of being confined to quarters. Or cancelled.

Now, for the first time since he had arrived in Section, he didn't know what to expect.

What would happen when he returned to Section? There would be a punishment, certainly. He had interfered with the mission objective: a reckless and unforgivable act, even if that objective hadn't made any sense. Operatives were cancelled every week for far less. The fact that it hadn't happened immediately meant nothing; it was possible that Adrian was merely gathering documentation before she imposed that final judgment. So be it.

He had meant it when he told Madeline that he took responsibility for his own actions. He was a soldier, and he lived by the soldier's code; under it, disobedience of a command justified the harshest discipline. He could accept the consequences of his behavior without fear or resentment. So long as the punishment was restricted to him, that is. According to Madeline, Adrian blamed her for his actions. That, combined with the disparaging remarks Adrian had made to him about Madeline, troubled him immensely.

Adrian had always seemed unusually drawn to and repelled by Madeline. Why, he never understood. But for years, Adrian had targeted her with a singular cruelty -- and for years, he had stood by and watched.

How had he let things get to this point? When he first came to Section, over ten years before, he had been in awe of Adrian, wanting to do nothing but impress her. Somehow, that awe had blinded him to the fact that she was human, after all -- that, like anyone, she was subject to error, full of blind spots and vanity. He had assumed that her treatment of Madeline was part of some larger purpose: a trial by fire, of sorts. But what if it were just misjudgment? A symptom of a leadership in decline?

For a decade, he had been the respectful protégé, awaiting his time, studying and absorbing every tactic employed by his commander. There was no doubt that Adrian was a master strategist, and that his apprenticeship with her had been invaluable. But without him knowing it, it had dulled him to what ambition felt like -- until that moment when he slammed his fist into Demetrios's face and felt a giddying surge of power.

At the time, he had completely misinterpreted the source of that feeling -- it wasn't until now that he realized what it really was. It wasn't about exerting power over Demetrios -- the man scarcely warranted his attention. It was only partly about Madeline, as much as he wanted to protect or possess her. In fact, it was about him: about finding the strength to defy Adrian and what she wanted, about thwarting her commands when they didn't make sense.

It was about standing up and saying that he knew better. Choosing his own destiny, instead of waiting for Adrian to hand it to him.

But if he lived through this, what kind of destiny would he choose?

To that question, he had no answer. Yet.

***

Adrian and Phillip ate without speaking, the silence of the private dining room broken only by the steady clink of silverware and the occasional gurgle of water as the waiter refilled a glass. Phillip had abandoned his halfhearted attempts at small talk long before, stymied by Adrian's refusal to reciprocate. Still, he ate slowly, as if determined to drag things out.

Adrian flicked her eyes up to look at him then dropped her gaze back to her plate. His unannounced arrival in Paris had wrenched her away from critical work, and she wouldn't pretend to be pleased to see him. The sooner he stopped dancing around his reason for being there the better. They both knew what it was; she wished he would just get on with it.

"Alan sends his regards," he said tersely, throwing a rapid glance up at Adrian before he reached for a slice of bread. "He's been quite ill, you know."

"Has he?" replied Adrian, raising her eyebrows in shock, caught off guard by the unexpected news.

"Kidney problems," he said. He spread a thick layer of butter on his bread, then he stopped and looked at her questioningly. "No one told you?"

No. No one had told her. But she wouldn't allow Phillip the satisfaction of knowing that she was out of the loop -- or just how upsetting it was.

"I'd heard rumors," she lied, casually cutting off a piece of fish. "I just didn't know the extent."

He chuckled dourly. "They've already etched the tombstone for the old boy." He bit off a piece of bread and set the remainder down on his plate, bringing his napkin up to dab at the corners of his mouth. "How long have you known him? Quite some time, isn't it?"

"I've known him all my life," she said, struggling to keep the pain from her voice. "He was a friend of my father's."

"Oh, of course. How could I forget?" He gave a brusque laugh. "Alan was the one who got you into the business, wasn't he?"

"Yes," she said, eyeing Phillip grimly. He hadn't forgotten anything, she decided. He had dropped this little bombshell deliberately -- delighted to be the first to tell her that her family friend, mentor and closest ally on the Council was dying.

"Ah, well, then I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings." He shrugged, failing to disguise the satisfied smirk that flitted across his face, and took a sip of his wine. "Still, times change. That generation's nearly gone now. He's one of the last of the Old Guard left. Things won't quite be the same without him."

"No." She took a bite of fish, and the bitter taste of lemon filled her mouth. Despite knowing that Phillip was watching her, she found herself staring sadly at her glass. The Old Guard wasn't disappearing -- it was being replaced. _They_ were becoming the Old Guard now.

How had that happened so quickly?

Phillip cleared his throat. "Rumor has it that Felix is up for Alan's Council seat," he said, his voice rich and conspiratorial.

"Felix?" She frowned, not recognizing the name.

"Felix Ortiz Correa."

She sat back in her seat, incredulous. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"He's hardly qualified," she said with a disdainful sniff. "Unless you count being the underemployed son of fascist general a qualification."

He chuckled and sliced a potato in half. "The Americans like him. That's qualification enough."

"The Americans' idea of long-range planning is the next election year. Since when do we allow them to dictate anything?"

Phillip laughed. "Don't worry, he's had years of experience rounding up the ETA. He knows what he's doing." He bit his potato and chewed it thoroughly. "In fact, I rather like him," he added.

_You would_, she thought.

"But enough gossip," he said, his look turning suddenly stern. "I didn't fly to Paris for that."

She set down her knife and fork. She had been dreading this confrontation from the moment that he showed up in Section that morning -- no, from the moment she heard that Demetrios was brain-damaged beyond recovery. As much as she secretly enjoyed the fact that Phillip would be deprived of the intel he wanted for his absurd database experiment, she knew he would try to make her pay.

"I made a simple request, Adrian. One that you promised to carry out. Why didn't you?"

"Demetrios, you mean?" she asked innocently, pretending to be confused by his question.

"No," he snapped, "I mean that time I asked you to spin straw into gold." He glared at her. "Of course, I mean Demetrios. Let's not play games, shall we?"

She took a deep breath. "Demetrios attacked an operative during the attempt to extract him from his residence. He had to be restrained with force. Unfortunately, he was injured during the process." She smiled regretfully. "It was an unavoidable accident. But I'm sure you'll be able to find your data elsewhere, Phillip."

There. She had done it. She had lied so smoothly that he would never be able to prove it, even if he suspected the truth. She had already rewritten all the eyewitness debriefs, making certain that there would be no evidence of what had really happened. She had even refrained from imposing any punishment on Paul, as much as he had deserved it. A formal record of discipline against Paul would contradict her story to Phillip -- and that, in turn, would be an admission that she hadn't been able to control her own hand-picked successor. It was just the kind of lapse Phillip would seize upon and take to the Council: the Council where she would soon have one less ally.

Paul's loss of control would thus have to be dealt with informally. Informally, but harshly. While Adrian had found temporary solace in blaming Madeline for Paul's violent outburst, she knew that the truth was far more distasteful. In fact, Adrian had misjudged Paul severely -- so severely that it called into question her plan to transfer leadership to him at all.

Phillip crossed his arms and studied her with suspicion. "An accident? That's not like you."

"To have an accident? It happens to the best of us."

He snorted derisively. "I meant it's not like you to admit that anything was beyond your control. You must be getting humble in your old age."

"No one can control everything, Phillip." She smiled. "It's a lesson I think we all ought to learn, don't you?"

***

Charles stared at the paintings on the wall of the waiting room, trying to convince himself that he wasn't nervous. Nineteenth century landscapes, all of them -- and originals, no less. Priceless works of art with no one to appreciate them but distracted visitors like himself. What a waste.

_What in God's name am I doing?_ he asked himself, casting his gaze about the room with growing anxiety. Coming here was almost certainly against protocol -- and he had never before circumvented the chain of command. Not for any reason, in all his years at the Section.

In fact, he couldn't recall a time that he had broken any rule. Ever.

Was he really that obedient? It was a dismaying realization. Even now, with the fate of the Section at stake, it had taken him an entire night nursing gin and tonics to work up the nerve to make his decision: to fly all the way to Brussels, behind Adrian's back.

Now that he was here, however, he felt his resolve harden. Enough was enough. It was time to rediscover his backbone.

The sound of the door opening made him look up in anticipation. A woman stepped inside the waiting room and smiled, gesturing for him to enter the room she had just departed.

"He'll see you now," she said pleasantly.

"Thank you," he said, rising to his feet and nodding as she held the door open for him.

As he entered the office he blinked, taken aback by its opulence. Adrian's office had its touches of luxury, but was essentially a Spartan workspace with a minimum of distractions. This room, in contrast, resembled an exclusive gentlemen's club: overstuffed chairs, wall-to-wall bookshelves, gilt-framed oil paintings, crystal decanters of port.

"Sit down," invited George, ensconced behind a massive mahogany desk. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you," answered Charles as he took a seat.

George studied Charles with an air of bemused curiosity. "This is somewhat irregular, Charles," he said, his voice a gravelly drawl. "Coming to see me here."

"Yes, I know." Charles leaned forward, fighting the temptation to sink back into the soft leather of his chair. "I've come to you because I don't know where else to turn."

Aside from a heavy-lidded stare, George showed no discernable reaction. After a moment, he nodded. "Go on, then."

Charles swallowed to relieve the dryness in his mouth. "Paul Wolfe seriously compromised a mission yesterday." He paused, his mood growing grim. "And Adrian is doing nothing about it."

"Indeed?" George narrowed his eyes, but his voice remained calm. "What happened?"

"Our objective was to capture a target and retrieve him for interrogation. Instead, Paul lost his temper and beat the man so severely he had to be euthanized."

"Did the target attack him?"

"No. He was secure and complying with orders."

Something unidentifiable passed across George's face, but before Charles could identify it, the blank expression returned. "Then why?"

Why? Because Paul couldn't handle his rage when Demetrios threatened Madeline's life. But explaining that would bring Madeline into the middle of things -- something Charles had resolved to avoid at all costs.

"I don't know. The man looked at him the wrong way, maybe. It doesn't take much to set Paul off." Charles grimaced. "He's done this sort of thing before, you know -- although never to the degree where he compromised a mission. Until now."

"This is troubling, I agree," said George, nodding somberly. "But you should speak to Adrian about your concerns."

Charles tensed, a surge of resentment flooding through him. "I did."

"And?" George blinked, sphinx-like.

"She thanked me for my input and dismissed me," Charles answered. "When I asked what would happen, she told me that personnel matters were none of my concern."

A corner of George's mouth twisted up. "She's quite correct. You did your duty by speaking to her, but she has no obligation to tell you how she plans to handle it."

Something in George's amused reaction offended Charles. This was a serious matter, and he wouldn't be patronized. "If it had been anyone else but Paul, Adrian would have ordered immediate cancellation," he countered frostily.

Charles stared at George, refusing to back down, until he saw a spark of approval light the other man's eyes. They held a look of mutual understanding for several moments.

"She intends to hand the leadership to him," Charles warned. "Imagine what a man like him would do with that sort of power."

George gave a sly smile. "I suppose you would wield power much more judiciously, then?"

Charles sat back in his chair, shocked. He hadn't intended that at all, although he now saw how he must have come across. He shook his head vigorously. "That's not why I'm here. I don't want it for myself."

"Then why _are_ you here?"

Why was he here? He frowned, momentarily puzzled. He hadn't actually stopped to ask himself that question. His outrage over Paul's behavior -- and Adrian's failure to punish him -- didn't have anything to do with the fact that Madeline had chosen Paul over him, did it? He sat for a moment, clenching his jaw in reaction to the sour taste that welled up in his mouth, as he admitted the answer. Yes. Of course it did.

Maybe he harbored just a bit of resentment at the fact that, like so many other women, Madeline was inexplicably attracted to some chest-thumping, macho brute. What of it? That didn't mean he was wrong about the man. If anything, it made the situation even more urgent -- she needed protection from Paul, from his control and his toxic influence, as much as the Section did. He could easily destroy both of them. _Would_ destroy both of them, unless he were stopped.

He straightened in his seat and looked George in the eye. "Because it's the right thing to do. For the Section."

George's smile broadened. "And if what's right for the Section just happens to benefit you--"

"No," interrupted Charles, his voice rising in frustration. "I meant what I said. This is not about me."

George sat for an uncomfortably long time in silence. Finally, he sighed. "What is it that you want me to do, Charles?"

"Speak to Adrian," Charles urged. "Paul is her protégé. I can understand that might affect her judgment." He looked at George pleadingly. "But you can be objective. You can reason with her. Convince her that he's wrong for the job."

"And if I can't convince her? What do you intend to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"If she won't change her mind, would you be willing to take the next step?" George gave him a strange, piercing look.

"What next step?" he asked, trying to ignore the sense of apprehension that plucked at his nerve endings.

"To do whatever it takes to protect the Section from Paul. Even if it goes against Adrian's wishes."

His apprehension blossomed into full-fledged fear. What had he just got himself into? But just as he was about to back away from the precipice he found himself perched upon, he had a new-found burst of courage. It was time to stop being hesitant. Time to do what was right.

"Yes," he said determinedly. "I'll do whatever it takes."


	14. Chapter 14

Tapping her pen on her clipboard impatiently, Lisa squinted through her costume glasses at the woman standing before her.

"You received notice of the review three days ago," Lisa said briskly. "Claiming you aren't ready just isn't an acceptable excuse."

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. "Look here," she said, her tone exasperated, "this review is going to be very disruptive for our residents. We're very careful about who we expose them to. Can't Section Four do its own research somewhere else?"

Lisa opened her mouth to give a frosty reply, but then hesitated, noticing the subtle look of hostility that flickered deep within the other woman's eyes. Perhaps she was using the wrong approach. If she continued to press for what she wanted, the woman might actually call Section Four -- or worse yet, Adrian -- to complain about the hoax "snap inspection" that Lisa had invented. If that happened, Lisa was dead before she ever began.

Unfortunately, she was at a loss for what to do next. The woman was completely unyielding, despite the official-looking memo from Section Four's own form database that Lisa had forged and now brandished. Nor were Lisa's business suit and officious attitude working; they only seemed to make the woman more obstinate in her refusal.

It was time to switch tactics -- time to stop threatening and start wheedling. Or begging, if need be. What had Madeline said? Something about finding out what people want or fear, and using that to control them. That's what Lisa had done with Jules, and it had worked beautifully. But he was easy to figure out; this woman posed more of a challenge.

What would the Director on Level 16 want? Lisa took a long, breath, and exhaled slowly to calm herself. _Okay_, she thought, _let's try another direction here._

She moved a little closer to the woman and touched her arm. "Mireille," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "can you keep a secret?"

Mireille frowned. "I don't know."

"This review isn't really about the residents, although I need to see a sample of them." Lisa smiled reassuringly. "It's about you."

Mireille stepped back, her expression alarmed. "I don't think I follow you."

Lisa leaned toward Mireille and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Section Four is a massive failure. George is thinking about starting from scratch. New children, new trainers."

"Really?" The alarm in Mireille's face gave way to a look of curiosity.

"I'm here -- unofficially -- because George thinks you might be a good choice to head the team to rebuild the Section. The problem is, Adrian wants to keep you here. So he sent me to check you out surreptitiously. Under the guise of an inter-Section research project, you see. If he likes what he finds, he'll find a way to finesse Adrian." Lisa stepped back again, giving the woman a knowing smile.

_God, is she going to buy this?_ Lisa's smile felt frozen as she waited for the woman to respond. She nearly closed her eyes in relief when Mireille seized her arm with an expression of delight.

"Oh, my God!" Mireille whispered excitedly. "That would be a huge promotion. And I hear that, uh," she said, hesitating, "that life is a little easier in the other Sections." An anxious look crossed her face. "Safer."

"You'd better believe it," Lisa said, nodding seriously. "But I need to take a look at a handful of your residents. Otherwise I can't give George any feedback about your results."

"Okay, you've got it." Mireille released Lisa's arm and took a nervous breath. "How many do you need to see?"

"Just three." Lisa withdrew a sheet of paper from her clipboard and handed it to Mireille. "Ten minutes with each."

"Only ten minutes?" Mireille gave her a puzzled look. "You aren't going to learn much that way. Why don't you spend the whole afternoon here? You could observe some of the classes. The more feedback for George, the better, right?"

Lisa felt her heart rate surge at the suggestion. If only she dared take more time -- it was bad enough she had to waste her limited time with two other children in order to cover her real reason for being here. But the longer she stayed, the greater the chance of detection.

"No," she said, shaking her head regretfully. "Like I said, this visit isn't entirely kosher. George doesn't even want Adrian to know I'm here, if you know what I mean." She smiled sadly. "So it has to be in and out fairly quickly."

Mireille nodded. "Got it."

"In fact," Lisa continued, "it's probably best if you don't mention this visit to anyone. If it gets back to Adrian that George is going around her, well, you can kiss your chances for a transfer goodbye."

"Okay," Mireille said. She glanced down at the list Lisa had handed her. "All right, the first one is just down the hallway here. Follow me."

As Lisa followed Mireille down a corridor, she gripped her clipboard and pen tightly. Her plan was actually working -- it amazed her how easy everything had been. There were so many ways she could have been caught, she couldn't quite believe that she was really getting away with it. Had Mireille bothered to call anyone at Section Four to verify the memo that Lisa had sent her earlier in the week; had the people in charge of surveillance actually tracked operatives' movements instead of simply monitoring the highest security areas; had Jules done a better job coding the elevator passwords so that she couldn't have hacked them -- if any of those things had happened, Lisa wouldn't have had a chance. But she had gambled that people would be lazy -- and she was right.

Mireille stopped outside a doorway, punched in a code to unlock it, and opened the door. "Here's your first stop," she said. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

Lisa gulped. "Thank you," she said, and stepped through the door.

The room was surprisingly tiny, even for one belonging to a child. The walls were white and completely devoid of decoration; aside from the small amount of furniture and a worn beige carpet, it looked more like a holding cell than anyone's living quarters. There was a bed with a plain blue cover. A small student desk with a hand-me-down Commodore computer. And a desk chair -- where a fragile-looking little boy with a crew cut sat, regarding her warily.

He was so pale he looked like a mushroom that had sprouted up after days of heavy rain. Did they even let him go outside? She felt her vision clouding with tears, and she blinked rapidly to control herself.

"Hi there," she said, her voice cracking.

He stared at her for several moments before speaking. "Who are you?"

"My name's Patricia," she said, regaining control over her voice. She crossed the room to sit on the bed. "You're Seymour, aren't you?"

He was only a few feet away -- within arm's reach -- and she struggled with a desperate urge to grab him and pull him toward her, or at least to touch his face. She had to glance away to suppress it.

"Yeah." He nodded. "But I don't like that name."

"Oh yeah? Why not?"

He shrugged. "It sounds dopey."

_Oh, God, I'm sorry for saddling you with that one_, she thought. He had been named for one of his grandfathers, just as his brother had been named for the other -- she had wanted each of them to have something connecting them to their family, even if they would never know it.

She forced a cheerful grin. "Hey, I've heard worse. You're lucky you aren't named Wilberforce."

His brow wrinkled. "That's a name?"

"Wilberforce, Egbert, Percival. There are all sorts of names much dopier than yours."

"Egbert?" He smiled shyly. "That's a stupid name." Then he frowned again. "But I still don't like Seymour."

"Okay, then I won't call you that. What do you want to be called?"

He cocked his head in thought. "I dunno. Nobody ever asked me before."

"Why don't you pick something?" She waited, but he said nothing. "Who's your favorite superhero?"

"Superhero?"

"You know. Like Batman's name is Bruce, or Superman's name is Clark. You could use one of their names."

"Who are they?" He looked at her in confusion.

"You don't know who Batman and Superman are?" She tried to keep from gaping.

He shook his head.

She looked around the room with growing anger. No posters, no books, no toys. Surely he wasn't being forced to work for Section yet?

"So," she said, "what do you do in here all day?"

"Lessons, mostly," he answered in a bored voice.

"Lessons?"

"Yeah." He looked at her like she had suddenly grown a second head. "Isn't that what you're here for?"

"Uh, no," she said hastily. "I'm, um, here to evaluate your teachers."

"Evaluate?" He looked puzzled.

"To find out if they're teaching you the right way."

"Oh, like last time." A trace of worry settled in his eyes. "Are you going to send them away again?"

"What do you mean?"

"Last time this man came and got really angry at the teachers. So they all got sent somewhere and I had to start with new ones." His voice was sad. "I don't want new teachers. The ones here are nice to me."

_Got sent somewhere_, she thought, repressing a shudder. _I bet. No wonder Mireille didn't want me here. She must be scared shitless of being reviewed._

"No, no, I'm not going to do that," she assured him. "I just want to find out if…." She clenched her teeth, her mouth twitching with the effort as she clamped down on a surge of emotion. "I want to find out if you're happy."

He gave her an odd look. "Huh?"

She blinked again and took a gulp of air, regaining control of herself. "I mean, do you like your lessons? Are they fun?"

He nodded.

"What do you study?"

"Different stuff. Math, reading, languages. And games. I spend a lot of time playing games." At the last part, his face lit up in a broad smile.

"Really? What kind of games?" Maybe it wasn't as bad as she had thought. Maybe they were allowing him to be a child.

"Battle games, mostly. And MUDs. Those are my favorite. I get to kill all sorts of monsters."

"Computer games, you mean?"

"Yeah. What else?"

What else? Baseball, soccer, cops-and-robbers -- something that would involve going outside, or at least other children.

Then again, if he spent his time working on computers, he would never become a field operative -- the one fate she dreaded the most. _How funny -- they're deliberately training him for the very thing that I've struggled so hard for._

When she heard a tap on the door she started. The ten minutes were up. Ten minutes, to substitute for a lifetime. Swallowing hard over the lump in her throat, she stood.

"Well, Seymour, or whatever you want to call yourself, it was nice meeting you." She extended a hand.

He took her hand to shake it. She held on for a few extra moments; his hand was small, hot, slightly sticky -- the prototypical hand of an eight-year-old boy. The contact was almost too much for her to bear; she felt a rush of tears well up in the corner of her eyes and let go of his hand abruptly. Turning sharply on her heel, she walked toward the door, until she heard him speak and stopped short.

"Bye," he said.

She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. "Bye. And good luck killing those monsters."

***

Madeline turned the page of the surveillance report, and reached for her pen to jot notes onto the pad of paper on her desk.

_Target's father - liver treatment, Copenhagen.  
5 visitors in past 3 weeks: wife, brother, brother's wife, nephew, employer  
Scenario One: target visits surreptitiously  
Scenario Two: family member contacts target  
Scenario Three:_

She looked up as the telephone rang, annoyed at the interruption. She set down the pen and picked up the receiver.

"Yes?" she answered curtly.

"Madeline."

The sound of the familiar voice prompted her to sit up straight before replying, her annoyance giving way to alert concentration.

"Hello, George. How are you?"

"I thought we might have lunch together tomorrow," he drawled. "I'll be in town, and it's been a while."

It had been almost four months, in fact. While she sent him status reports covertly, her face-to-face dealings with him were thankfully minimal. But every so often he wanted the opportunity to question her more thoroughly -- as much to read her own behavior, she suspected, as to find out any information she could convey about others.

"That sounds wonderful. I always appreciate having the chance to catch up." She slipped into the deferential but slightly casual tone of voice he had recommended that she use with him on the telephone -- her manner aimed at convincing potential eavesdroppers that their meetings were run-of-the-mill networking get-togethers between a former mentor and his ex-employee, and not anything untoward.

"One o'clock," he instructed. "The usual place."

"I'll see you then."

"Goodbye."

She heard George's phone click off, then the dial tone. As she placed the receiver back in its cradle, she reflected with mild curiosity upon the absence of a reaction on her part. Normally, the prospect of a meeting with George filled her with nervous queasiness, each contact an unwelcome reminder that he had induced her into committing a cancelable offense -- and that he, and not she, held all the power. If he ever lost faith in her loyalty -- even for a moment -- he could crush her. _Would_ crush her, she had no doubt.

This time, that anxious feeling was absent. Instead, she felt nothing. Somehow, George had ceased to be anyone of concern. He was just a thing to be dealt with, yet another person she had to choose a role for. For him, she played the reliable subordinate, the junior conspirator. Then, at a moment's notice, she could shrug that persona off and take up another one -- selecting whatever was expedient for the next task she engaged in, the next person she interacted with, switching instantaneously, seamlessly, effortlessly.

In the past, her mistake had been in trying to hold on to her inner self while she did so. That self, full of doubts, worries, and attachments, got in the way -- it dragged along like a drowning person clinging to her, exhausting her with its dead weight until it pulled her under. But set aside somewhere, out of the way, it was no longer a burden. She didn't need to carry it around with her all the time, after all. She had pried its fingers from their grip around her neck and shoved it away, to wait until she felt like interacting with it. If ever.

Without it, she could do anything. Accomplish everything. She was everything, anything, nothing, and no one. There were no more restraints, no more boundaries, no more limits.

She was free -- and freedom was power.

The sound of a door slamming in the office next door startled her out of her thoughts. She shook herself mentally, preparing to return to her work, then stopped and glanced at her watch. She had been working thirteen hours without interruption. Perhaps it was time to stop. She stretched in her chair, trying to decide whether she should go directly home or stop to eat first. Then she frowned as an unexpected thought slipped into her mind, capturing her with its strange, compelling attraction.

She spent her time acting, performing, playing roles. How pleasant it would be to have someone perform for _her_ for a change. How satisfying to be able to demand that of someone else.

There was nothing to stop her. It wouldn't really even be wrong: a harmless diversion to help her relax.

She turned to her computer and typed a command, waiting until a list of names appeared on the screen. She scanned through them one by one, browsing casually the way one would through a rack of clothes.

_Intriguing, but no. Maybe. Definitely not. A possibility. No, not quite right._

Then she saw it.

_Oh, yes._

She stared at the name, picturing the man: a young valentine operative so smarmy, so false and cloying, that he had always made her blood run cold.

He was perfect.

He was exactly what she wanted. Someone to perform for her. To engage in all the hackneyed, pathetic come-ons that women were supposed to like, to whisper saccharine phrases in her ear, to tell her that he loved her even though they both knew he didn't, to do as she told him, when she told him, how she told him. As many times as she told him. And to be tossed aside afterwards, like an empty chocolate wrapper.

Reaching for her phone again, she punched in his number and waited for him to answer.

"Lars," she said, using her smoothest, most sensuous voice. "I'd like to see you in my office. I have a few questions for you about next week's mission, if you don't mind."

***

George hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, lost in thought. Madeline's tone of voice during their brief conversation hadn't betrayed anything unusual -- there were no hints of nervousness that would have suggested she was withholding any information. And yet, thanks to his conversation with Charles earlier in the week, he knew she had.

Her status report on the mission in Greece, sent to him two days before, conflicted with Charles's description in several key respects. He suspected that both of them had omitted details about the event in question -- both spinning the story to suit their own purposes. George had spent the past day comparing the two accounts to the official mission log, trying to determine what parts of each could be believed.

It was very disappointing.

Of course, he hardly expected Madeline to be completely forthcoming with information. She would be a fool not to hold back certain things for her own advantage, and he wouldn't have selected her as his source had he thought she was that. But neglecting to mention that Adrian was covering up for an operative who had lost control of himself was a critical omission. One that she should have known better than to have made.

One omission like this was a red flag. A warning to keep an eye out on her, although not serious enough to cause him to abandon his plans for her altogether. Another incident like this, however, would be a different story. He would have to be very watchful from now on.

When he heard the telephone ring, he wondered briefly if it might be Madeline calling him back -- trying to find an excuse to beg out of their lunch meeting for the next day. Suspicious, he picked up the receiver.

"This is George."

"George. Phillip here."

He blinked at the sound of the unexpected voice. "Why, Phillip, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"

"I've been giving your structural suggestions some thought," the other man said brusquely, as if he were picking up where a recent conversation left off instead of raising a subject they hadn't discussed in over a year. "I'm beginning to come round to your point of view."

George was momentarily speechless, dumbfounded at Phillip's conversational gambit. He had long since given up trying to win over the head of Center to his vision for the Sections, reluctantly concluding that Phillip was simply too caught up in the theoretical concerns of policy to appreciate George's ideas.

"That's very gratifying," he said, finally, unable to think of anything else to say.

Phillip snorted. "Still the master of understatement, George? I expect as soon as I ring off you'll do a dance of joy."

_You arrogant prick_, George thought. No wonder Adrian despised Phillip. Alas, one couldn't always choose one's allies.

"And you're still quite the wit, Phillip," he said dryly.

"Yes, well, perhaps." Phillip laughed for a moment, then his tone grew more serious. "At any rate, Adrian's gone too far. She thinks she doesn't have to answer to anyone. It can't continue."

"That's what I've been telling you," said George, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. "We need a governing hierarchy that imposes control on the Sections. That takes the organization out of the realm of personal whim and into that of logic and order."

"Yes, yes, George, let me commend you for your foresight," Phillip said bitingly. "But the problem has grown in severity of late."

Had it? How interesting. "In what respect?" he asked, his interest piqued.

"I've made requests for support and intelligence. I believe she's deliberately inventing excuses to avoid providing them."

George smiled. In other words, Phillip didn't get something he wanted -- _that_ was why the problem had "grown in severity" so suddenly.

"Cooperation isn't her strong point," he remarked blandly. "She probably thinks Center is encroaching upon her territory."

"That's ridiculous," huffed Phillip. "We're partners, not rivals."

George chuckled. "Adrian doesn't like partners."

Him included, he reflected, his amusement tinged with bitterness. He might never have considered taking this path -- turning toward a fool such as Phillip for help -- had she treated him as an equal instead of a subordinate. Had she listened to some of his ideas instead of dismissing them out of hand. Yes, she was the genius behind the creation of the Sections -- but he had worked just as hard to build them, and he deserved as much respect.

"In any event," said Phillip, "what you've proposed makes sense. Some sort of oversight entity to ensure that the Sections don't get completely out of control. A liaison to facilitate cooperation between Center and the Sections."

"Precisely."

"The problem is, she'll never agree to it."

"No."

"Which is why she's got to go."

George's stomach lurched -- both anxious and relieved that the other man finally said it. George had come to that conclusion years ago; still, he preferred to let Phillip think it was his idea.

"You don't have a problem with that, do you?" Phillip asked, his words heavy with unspoken meaning.

"Not if she's allowed to save face," George answered, his voice weakening as he tried to suppress a sudden stab of guilt. "A retirement with privileges."

"It would have to be forced."

"Of course."

"Regrettably, I don't have the clout to make it happen yet. Her support on the Council is waning, but it hasn't disappeared altogether." Phillip paused. "It's going to take time."

"Understood."

George closed his eyes. If Phillip could make this happen, it would all be so much easier. George could suspend his plans to orchestrate a coup, and simply look the other way while the inevitable played out. He could be a passive conspirator instead of an active traitor -- and one who, at least in a small way, protected Adrian's dignity in the process.

The strength of his relief shocked him. It left him weak, yet strangely energized -- and struck with the urge to fly straight to Paris and embrace the woman they were discussing: the woman he worshiped and resented, whom he loved and hated in equal parts. The woman he would no longer have to destroy -- because someone else would destroy her for him.

Phillip's voice rasped over the phone, startling George back into awareness.

"Good. Then we understand each other. I think we'll make a rather good team, don't you?"

"Yes," said George. "I do, too."

**End of Part Two**


	15. Chapter 15

## Part Three - 1987

 

With a booted kick that sent the door flying open, Paul forced his way into the bathroom. He stepped across the threshold and aimed his gun directly ahead -- straight at the forehead of the wide-eyed man quivering in the bathtub.

Paul scowled in disappointment. He had hoped to find his target, a Red Cell commander; instead, he confronted a mere flunky, a man he recognized from surveillance photos as a green recruit. Someone who would know nothing. Someone useless. Someone who was a waste of his rapidly ebbing time.

"Where's Norasty?" Paul demanded, fighting the urge to exterminate the man like a cockroach discovered scuttling in a cupboard.

The man gaped at him without response. Soapsuds dripped slowly down his thin chest.

"I said, where's Norasty?" Paul repeated, lowering his voice menacingly. "We know he lives here."

He glared at the man and began a silent count to ten before resorting to more severe means of persuasion. But before he could end his count, the other man's face twitched strangely. His lips trembled, and then he burst out in a sudden guffaw, his bony shoulders shaking in mirth.

A joker. Great. Paul could give him something to laugh about.

Stuffing his gun in the holster against the small of his back, he strode toward the tub and grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck. With an angry grunt, he shoved the man forward, pressing his full weight down as he thrust the man's face under the water.

The man thrashed in panic, clawing at the slick sides of the bathtub, but only succeeded in sloshing heavy waves of water over the edge and onto the floor. Paul held him down for nearly a minute before he yanked him back up by the hair.

"That was just a barrel of laughs, wasn't it? Now, where's Norasty?"

The man shook his head, coughing and spitting out water, and started to laugh giddily. "I don't know," he said, gasping out the words in between his sniggers. "He left for Turkey three days ago. He should have been back by now."

The sight of the man giggling like an idiot triggered a feeling of frustrated loathing. Paul lunged at him, seizing his neck with both hands as he pushed him backwards into the tub. He squeezed his thumbs against the fragile skin of the throat, and his nails drew a tiny cloud of red that spiraled through the water. Submerged, the man's blond hair swirled around his face, his eyes bugging, as a trail of bubbles escaped from his mouth and nose. He kicked, squirmed, and tugged desperately at Paul's hands; his motions splashed water wildly in every direction, drenching Paul in the face and chest. The more the man struggled, the tighter Paul's grip became -- until, slowly, the splashing subsided.

When the movement and air bubbles had almost ceased, Paul wrenched the man back to the surface. The man choked violently and retched. He sputtered and wheezed for air as water spilled thickly out of the corners of his mouth.

"Tell me where Norasty is," Paul said, kneeling by the tub in barely-controlled fury, "or next time you'll drown."

The man coughed for several moments, but then began to laugh again, tittering uncontrollably. "I don't know where he is, I swear."

Paul struck the man across the face. "What the hell is so funny?" he shouted. "You think this is a joke? You think I won't snap your scrawny neck if you don't tell me what I want?"

The man shook his head helplessly. "Nothing's funny. I just can't stop."

He erupted in gales of laughter again as Paul leaned back on his heels, no longer angry, just baffled.

"Are you on drugs?"

"No, I swear. I'm sorry. I can't help myself. Please, don't hurt me anymore."

Abruptly, the laughter ceased. The man began to blink rapidly, moisture filling his eyes -- then just as suddenly as he stopped laughing, he burst into tears.

"Christ," muttered Paul. He rose to his feet and looked down at the man in disgust. He pulled out his gun and waved it impatiently. "Get out of the tub."

Instead of responding, the man curled his knees up and covered his face with his hands, sobbing loudly. Paul stared, at a loss for what to do -- he was just about to reach into the tub to haul the man out when he heard a gruff voice from the doorway.

"The building is secure. Instructions?"

Paul looked over his shoulder to see Patrick standing stone-faced in the hallway.

"No sign of Norasty?" Paul asked.

"No."

"How many hostiles?"

"Three."

"Four, with this one. Get some clothes on him and bring him out with the rest."

As a wailing sound emerged from the bathtub, Patrick's face wrinkled in an odd expression.

Paul shrugged and stepped past Patrick to exit the door, dripping water along the way.

"He's either on something or he's a lunatic. We'll leave it to Madeline to find out which."

***

As she walked along the corridor outside Containment, Adrian was struck by the silence. Her visits to this part of Section were rare; each time, she somehow expected to hear screams of terror, even through the soundproof doors. Instead, there was always a surprising hush, as if the antiseptic sterility of the surroundings swallowed all noise.

Rounding a corner, she slowed her pace, spotting the figure seated at an alcove workstation. The soft clack of a keyboard grew louder as she approached; when she reached the woman's side, she waited several seconds to see if she would look up from her work, then cleared her throat.

"Madeline," she said. "May I have a moment?"

Madeline swung around with a surprised expression and started to stand. Adrian waved her back down, then she pulled over another chair and sat, clasping her hands on her knee.

"I just concluded Paul's debrief," Adrian announced. "Norasty wasn't at the Madrid safe house."

"Yes, so I heard."

"We had firm intel placing him there on Tuesday." She sighed wearily and stared down the long, empty corridor. "It's unfortunate, but he seems to have slipped through our fingers again."

Red Cell's leadership -- Norasty included -- had an ability to melt away that Section's other enemies had never achieved. At first, it hadn't mattered -- Red Cell seemed a minor player, a fringe group whose activities were overshadowed by the Cold War battles of the superpowers and their proxies. Recently, however, she had come to see it as the more significant threat. Unlike the older revolutionary organizations sponsored by the Soviets or China, this group was uncontrollable, irrational -- causing destruction not to serve the geopolitical ends of its masters, but for terror's own sake.

Adrian had always prided herself on her ability to predict -- and outwit -- the behavior of the enemy. But Red Cell, and the growing number of groups like it, posed a new challenge. It required a change in analysis she wasn't certain she was capable of making, a logic completely different from what she was accustomed to -- indeed, a kind of illogic, a willingness to consider actions so dreadful that they crossed the line into barbarism and inhumanity.

It required, in truth, the ability to think like a madman. An ability Adrian did not wish to cultivate. Fortunately, however, there were others in Section she could rely upon for that skill.

She returned her gaze to Madeline. The young woman sat patiently, her hands folded in her lap, awaiting her commander's instructions with an impassive expression -- like an engine on idle, whirring softly until brought to life by a tap on the accelerator.   
"Do you have any input as to where he might go next?" Adrian asked.

"There's a sixty-three percent probability that he's heading to one of three locations we have under surveillance," Madeline answered quickly, her tone clipped and precise. "I'll have an updated profile factoring in that contingency within an hour."

"Good."

Adrian examined the other woman with approval. Madeline had made such progress from the old days, when she had to be constantly monitored and disciplined -- now, properly conditioned, she functioned with a smooth efficiency, like a well-oiled gear. She seemed to have accepted her designated place within the Section, had learned to live with the restrictions that Adrian had imposed -- perhaps had even come to respect her superior's reasons for doing so.

She was still deeply flawed, a moral cripple in certain respects, but that no longer posed any real danger. Her loyalty to -- and identification with -- the Section was so deeply internalized that her weaknesses had transformed into strengths. They gave her a unique view into the mind of the enemy. They enabled her to carry out the ugly but necessary tasks that Section depended on. They were the raw material that Adrian had forged into a powerful weapon -- sharp and cruel, cutting down the enemy without mercy, but carefully sheathed at home.

To her surprise, Adrian found herself growing more and more dependent on her.

She blinked, returning her thoughts to the present. "I take it the prisoners weren't useful."

"They told us what they knew about Red Cell's hierarchy, which wasn't much," Madeline replied, her tone apologetic.

"I see." Adrian rose to her feet to depart. "Thank you, Madeline. Let me know if you learn anything new."

"There is one thing," Madeline added, a faint mixture of worry and excitement seeping into her expression. "I was going to send you a report, but since you're here…."

Adrian frowned in surprise. It wasn't like Madeline to allow signs of concern to show so blatantly. "What is it?"

"One of the prisoners is quite curious."

The vague answer -- and the hesitant manner in which it was delivered -- triggered an instinctive sense of apprehension. She returned to her seat, filled with uneasy alertness, waiting for Madeline to elaborate.

"His behavior has been highly aberrant," Madeline explained. "Extreme displays of emotion: crying, laughing, cowering, screaming, all without any apparent relationship to what's going on around him at the time."

"He's in shock," Adrian said dismissively. "Surely you've seen that before."

"I thought that at first," Madeline continued. "But then we found unusual chemical residues in his blood."

"A drug addict?"

"I don't think so. The residues aren't consistent with any known recreational drugs."

As the implication of Madeline's words sank in, Adrian leaned forward, intrigued. "What then?"

Madeline hesitated, looking uncharacteristically nervous, before taking a deep breath. "They suggest the presence of a neurological conditioning process."

"Some sort of mind control?" Adrian asked, almost too astonished to believe what she had heard. Red Cell had never shown that level of sophistication before -- if they were adopting such techniques, it was an ominous turning point.

"To put it in simple terms, yes." Madeline glanced at a folder lying on the desk. "When Medlab gave me the bloodwork, I asked them to examine him further."

"And?"

"I'm awaiting the results."

Adrian stood again, her mood grim. "I'll be conducting briefings for the rest of the day. But I want to be interrupted the instant you know anything further."

Madeline nodded. "Understood."

***

The row of televisions blared out a deafening cacophony. Hyperactive sports play-by-plays competed with melodramatic movie dialogue and sitcom laugh tracks for the attention of wandering shoppers. The noise and flashing images were almost mesmerizing; Lisa stared blankly at the wall of screens for several minutes before moving on, circling toward the audio equipment for what seemed like the hundredth time.

The electronics department was large by department store standards, but after twenty minutes Lisa had retraced her path through the aisles so many times she had the prices memorized. She had pressed buttons, turned dials, read display cards -- fending off the inquiries of salespeople while she snuck anxious glances at the entrance.

Her impatience growing, she checked her watch once more. As she made an angry vow to leave in five minutes, she looked up again and started: a middle-aged woman with sharp features and a blunt, blonde bob had materialized inside the entrance. They avoided each other's gaze, but Lisa watched the other woman's progress out of the corner of her eye. The woman took her time, browsing with deceptive casualness, but gradually made her way into Lisa's aisle. When she was a few feet away, she looked over at Lisa and smiled politely.

"Excuse me, but do you know the difference between these brands? I want a portable tape player, but there are so many to choose from."

"I was looking at this one," Lisa answered, and she gestured toward an enormous combination radio/tape player with shiny, detachable speakers. "It got a good rating in a consumer review."

"Let's see how it sounds," the woman suggested, reaching for the switch and turning it on.

The latest pop hit began pulsing through the speakers: a droning bass, a thumping drum machine, a teenaged singer's studio-enhanced voice. The bubble-gum melody was excruciating to listen to -- but loud enough to shield their conversation from people in nearby aisles.

"What is it, Mireille?" Lisa asked grimly. "I had to make all sorts of excuses to get out this afternoon. I'm supposed to be prepping a mission."

The Director of Section's Level 16 pursed her lips daintily. "I've been thinking. About our arrangement."

Lisa swallowed hard in dismay. Once, their "arrangement" had seemed so simple -- a relationship that Lisa could control. It had started out that way, at least. But somehow along the way, she found herself the one under control -- her own power mysteriously turned against her by Mireille's jiu-jitsu-like maneuvering.

It was her own fault, unfortunately. She had allowed paranoia to rule her thinking, leading her to a decision that she regretted more and more each day. Almost two years before, plagued with the fear that Mireille would eventually contact someone to see if the transfer to Section Four Lisa had promised was imminent, Lisa had broken down and contacted Mireille surreptitiously.

There was no transfer, Lisa confessed. In fact, Mireille had allowed an unforgivable breach in security -- one that was in both of their interests to conceal. As Lisa explained the situation, Mireille was stunned, then horrified, then angry. But eventually, after she calmed down, she came round to Lisa's point of view -- and the arrangement was born. Mireille would keep quiet -- would even use her position to make Seymour's life incrementally better -- and in return, Lisa would use her hacking skills to do Mireille small favors.

So simple. So easy. So stupid.

The favors had stayed small for a time: higher credit card limits, an extra day of authorized downtime, minor changes that would pass unnoticed through Section's vast IT system. But one request led to another, then another; as Mireille's courage grew, so did her appetite for privileges.

"What do you want?" Lisa asked, bracing herself for the latest demand.

Mireille sniffed. "I'm tired of having to take the metro in every morning," she said with a self-pitying look. "Do you know it takes me forty-five minutes just to get to work?"

"You want a _car_?"

"No," said Mireille, smiling sweetly. "I want a new apartment. Something within walking distance."

Lisa gaped at the other woman in shocked outrage. "That's completely crazy. Just how do you think we'll be able to get away with that?"

"Go into Accommodation's database and upgrade my rating," Mireille explained, speaking in a tone one might use with a slow-witted child.

Lisa shook her head. "No way. That's too big. Someone's going to spot it."

Mireille's expression hardened, and her lips formed into a thin, angry line. "I received a favorable annual review last month. It's not completely unheard of."

Lisa held her breath in an attempt to calm herself, then responded in a low voice. "What next, Mireille? A vacation home on the Riviera?" She grabbed Mireille's arm and dug her fingers in. "When is it going to be enough?"

"It'll be enough when I don't have to risk my life giving your boy special treatment." Mireille gave Lisa an icy glare. "I didn't ask to be dragged into this little conspiracy, you know. Don't blame me for the mess you created."

The women stared at each other as the radio blasted another cheerful song. The repetitive melody drilled into Lisa's head, the insipid lyrics a mocking counterpoint to their strained standoff.

After a few moments, Lisa felt her shoulders sag in defeat. "Fine," she said, releasing her grip on Mireille's arm. "You're probably right. It's soon enough after your review that the housing upgrade won't look too suspicious."

Mireille's glare melted magically.

"Thanks, Lisa," she said. "I knew you'd come through for me. And really, I promise I'll never ask for anything unreasonable. I don't want to be caught any more than you do." She paused, and then a cheerful look flashed across her face. "Oh, I've got something for you," she said, smiling broadly and reaching into her purse.

Mireille withdrew an envelope from her purse and slid it onto the display table next to the radio.

"What's that?" Lisa asked nervously.

"I took some pictures of Seymour on his birthday." Mireille's eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. "We brought him a cake and made him wear one of those silly paper hats. He looked adorable."

"Pictures?" Lisa tried not to stare at the envelope, not wanting to draw anyone's attention to it.

"I thought you might appreciate them," Mireille explained, her gaze softening with a faint look of pity. "It's been two years since you saw him, after all -- he's a lot bigger now."

"That's only natural," Lisa said with forced casualness, unwilling to allow Mireille to see any sadness in her demeanor.

"He wears glasses now, too. Too much time at the computer, I'm afraid."

Lisa nodded. "Thanks, Mireille."

Mireille reached for the radio and switched it off. "That sounded pretty good," she commented loudly. "But the prices here are too high. I'm going to look across town."

With that, Mireille turned and walked away, leaving the envelope behind.

***

Charles rapped on the door, forcing himself to use a light touch despite his bounding energy. He waited, shifting back and forth from one foot to another, and broke out in a grin when he heard the muffled invitation to enter.

He swung open the door and stepped into the small office. Madeline sat at her desk, looking up at the door with an expectant expression. When she spotted Charles, her face warmed with a welcoming smile.

"Hello, Charles. What brings you here?"

Charles could barely repress his ebullient mood. "The Defense Minister cancelled his trip to Manila. That means the Pangalinan mission is postponed indefinitely."

He grinned, waiting for her to react to the good news as he had -- but to his surprise, she merely looked confused.

"Am I supposed to do the follow-up?" she asked, glancing distractedly at the report on her desk, then looking back up at him with a frown. "It wasn't my profile."

"No," he said, laughing and shaking his head. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"

The look of confusion in her eyes grew stronger, as did her frown. "Apparently, I have."

"I cancelled our concert date when the mission came up. But it looks like I'll be free after all." He hesitated. "That is, if you're still interested in going."

Her frown vanished, replaced by an embarrassed blush. She rose from her chair and rounded her desk to stand beside him, placing her hand on his arm.

"Of course I am," she said reassuringly. "I was looking forward to it." She gave him a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I didn't know what you meant. I've been lost in my work today."

He relaxed in relief. "Splendid. I'll go ahead and reserve tickets. Dinner reservations, too?"

"That would be lovely."

She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and then returned to her desk. He turned to exit, but then paused, looking back hopefully.

"Say, would you be interested in dinner tonight? There's a new place on rue Montorgueil I'd like to try."

She looked back up at him, still smiling -- but her face turned suddenly rigid, as if she had coated it with a glaze of politeness. "I'm sorry, Charles," she said evenly. "I have plans this evening."

Plans. Of course.

He knew exactly what those plans must be, although it was a subject they avoided discussing whenever possible. Her reputation for picking out vapid young pretty-boys for her private recreation was notorious -- and yet the two of them behaved as if it weren't an issue, as if he were completely oblivious to that side of her life.

Not that it was any of his business, really. Once he first began to invite her to join him on various outings, a year before, she had made it clear -- without being too blatant -- that their relationship could have been more intimate had he been willing to tolerate other men in her life. He had made it equally clear that he was unwilling to accept those terms. So they reached an unspoken mutual understanding that things would remain strictly platonic. He had accepted that, resigning himself to the role they both seemed comfortable with him playing: an escort to cultural events, a conversational partner, a well-educated companion with whom to indulge mutual intellectual interests. Something akin to an older brother or a favorite uncle.

He had even succeeded in convincing himself -- almost -- that such an arrangement was satisfactory. But moments like this -- reminders that she sought physical satisfaction elsewhere, in the well-chiseled arms of preening gigolos -- exposed the unpleasant truth. He would never be satisfied with things as they were -- could never be happy pretending to be a eunuch, conveniently available whenever she wanted to attend the symphony with someone whose IQ surpassed double-digits.

Then again, he couldn't walk away.

He cleared his throat. "Another time, then."

"Yes. Maybe next week," she added, seemingly in haste to smooth over any awkwardness.

"I'll let you know when I get the tickets."

"Good."

Masking his embarrassment with a quick smile, he retreated from the office.


	16. Chapter 16

As she turned the corner, Adrian spotted the three operatives waiting at the conference table. She could feel the intensity of their mood even from across the room; it felt as if a humming electricity filled the air, growing stronger as she approached. It clung to her like the heaviness before a thunderstorm, so thick she nearly had to push her way through it.

The energy seemed to swirl everywhere, but it flowed from a precise point: a spot between Paul and Madeline, where they leaned together in conversation so closely their heads nearly touched. Their voices were low, too muted for Adrian to hear, but their faces bore expressions of acute concentration, of a mutual absorption so rapt it seemed almost arrogant in its exclusion of their surroundings.

When Adrian reached the head of the table and took a seat, they pulled apart and turned toward her attentively -- emerging from their communion with a smooth, synchronous movement. Madeline gave her a curt, professional nod; Paul simply sat, watching her with a pallid gaze, punctuated by slow blinks.

Adrian smiled at them politely, and turned to do the same to Walter. He sat across the table from the other two; unusually silent, he wore a grave expression that contrasted starkly with his bright shirt and gaudy turquoise medallion.

"Since you called me out of my meeting," Adrian began, "I take it you've learned something about our captive's condition?"

"Yes, we have," answered Madeline. Although her voice was calm, her dark eyes were filled with a subtle disquiet. She held Adrian's gaze for a moment, then glanced at Walter.

Walter reached into a box next to him. He withdrew a small, rectangular object covered in a black plastic casing; placing it on the table, he looked up nervously at Adrian.

"What is that?" Adrian asked. It looked like a component that had been stripped out of something else, with long, protruding wires that dangled loosely from the sides.

"Medlab removed this fun little doohickey from our guest," said Walter, his words light, but his tone grim.

Removed it from him? Surgically? That's what Walter seemed to be saying, but it didn't make any sense.

"And it is?" she asked.

"The case contains a battery and a radio receiver. They found it implanted under his collarbone." He reached toward the object and ran a finger along the wires. "These here have microelectrodes attached -- they came out from the battery, traveled under his skin along the neck and scalp, and then went into his brain."

"Into his brain?" Adrian sat back in her chair. "In order to…?"

"To zap the poor bastard with an electrical current."

Adrian stifled the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, Walter, I grasped that much," she said. "But to what end?"

He held up his hands as if warding off the question. "I'm here to tell you how it's built. As for what it's used for, that's witch-doctor stuff."

His words hung uncomfortably in the air for several moments. He looked away, staring at an empty seat toward the far end of the table.

Eventually, Madeline cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. "The electrodes were placed so as to stimulate a variety of emotional centers in the brain," she explained. "When switched on, the electrical current would induce mood changes."

"Thus explaining his unusual behavior," said Adrian.

"Precisely."

Adrian stared at the device. How revolting to think that such a barbaric piece of equipment had actually been implanted in a human being. Then she frowned: there was a fact that didn't quite fit into the puzzle.

"What's the purpose of the radio receiver?" she asked, turning back toward Walter.

He gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "Oh, that's the best part. It allows someone else to send signals to it, telling it which electrode to turn on. Kind of like changing TV channels with a remote control."

"Or controlling a robot," Adrian murmured, a feeling of horror sweeping through her veins.

"Not quite," Madeline interjected. "It triggers strong emotions, but doesn't entirely supplant the subject's free will."

"Then what is its purpose?"

Madeline paused for a moment, a thoughtful look on her face. "Performance enhancement, I believe."

"Performance enhancement?" Adrian repeated, not quite certain what Madeline meant -- or, more accurately, not quite certain she wanted to know.

"Imagine how motivated an assassin would be if you could push a button and send him into a homicidal rage," said Madeline. "Or how convincing an undercover agent would be in his role if you could generate genuine emotions." She moved forward in her chair, her expression growing more focused. "You could even give someone on a suicide mission an extra boost of courage."

As Madeline leaned toward her, Adrian found herself drawing back, repulsed by the unperturbed -- almost admiring -- tone that had crept into the other woman's voice.

"That's monstrous," Adrian exclaimed.

Madeline regarded Adrian blankly for several moments, but then a subtle change took place within her eyes. Deep inside, a look of calculating, mechanical coldness grew, as if a long-dormant creature had stirred to life in some pitch-black cavern.

After a long silence, Madeline spoke. "That's the theory behind the device, at least," she said. "But it's apparent from our captive's erratic behavior that it's far from perfected. In fact, I doubt they had any real control over his reactions."

Adrian swallowed, forcing back an acid taste that filled her mouth. No matter how well-conditioned and obedient Madeline had become, she was still thoroughly cold-blooded -- and no matter how many times Adrian reminded herself of that fact, its demonstration never lost its impact.

"It's far from perfected now," Adrian said, recovering her composure by focusing on the immediate problem. "But they'll succeed eventually?"

"Perhaps. Given enough time."

Adrian drummed her fingers on the table. "Could they do this to someone without his knowledge? A sleeper assassin, for example?"

"I'm reluctant to speak in absolutes," Madeline said, "but it's hard to imagine that the procedure could escape the notice of the subject. It requires neurosurgery and recovery time, as well as adjustment and testing of the battery and the radio after implantation. In addition, there would be noticeable side-effects whenever the device was producing a current." She paused, frowning. "However, a knowing participant doesn't have to be a willing participant. Someone could be forced to submit to it."

Forced to submit to it? Somehow, that seemed even worse than being an unwitting victim.

Adrian laughed. "This is how they have to motivate their members? So much for the strength of their ideology." She shook her head in disgust. When none of them reacted to her remark, she turned to Paul. "Have you noticed odd behavior out in the field? Any signs they've tried this out on anyone else?"

"No." He stared at her impassively. Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, he looked bored. But the flicker of awareness in his eyes, the slight tension in his features that brought out faint lines in his face, hinted not of boredom, but of contempt.

It was a contempt she had seen before -- that had been growing increasingly visible over time. A contempt she knew she needed to respond to -- but hadn't quite yet decided how.

In any event, now was not the time to deal with it. Turning away from Paul, she leaned her chin on her hand, her mind sifting through their options. She straightened again when an idea began to emerge, crystallizing slowly.

"Walter?" she asked, a small smile curling her mouth.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Could we jam their signals and interfere with the communication of the commands?"

He nodded. "Sure, probably, if we outfitted our teams with the right equipment."

"Could we send our own signals?"

"Could we what?"

"If we knew the right frequency, could we send our own commands to their operatives? Could we control their reactions -- encourage them to surrender if we attacked, for example?"

"Oh, boy, I don't know." He shook his head. "Trying to make that work could get pretty complicated. I think it's a long shot."

"My, my, Walter," she said with a chuckle, "you don't usually let that discourage you. Or is it only in the pursuit of female company that you're so dogged in the face of overwhelming odds?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again, his face turning crimson.

"Walter," she announced, "I want you to begin testing means to control the signals to this device. Madeline, your assignment is to gather as much information as possible about how it might actually affect the subject. I want both of you to report back to me in a week, and we'll decide how to proceed from there."

Madeline exchanged a quick glance with Walter, then smiled politely. "Actually, I'm already somewhat familiar with the topic."

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? A bit of leisure-time reading?"

Madeline showed no reaction. "The Soviet doctor who pioneered the technology is someone I had occasion to work with during my undercover assignment for Section Two," she said blandly.

"Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten?" Adrian said, unable to keep the distaste out of her voice. That prior work for Section Two was something Adrian had only reluctantly authorized. Still, there was no denying it had given Madeline highly useful skills. "Would you be able to conduct such research here?"

"By myself?" Madeline asked. When Adrian nodded, she shook her head. "No. I'm not a physician. I _do_ know enough to supervise a team working on such a project." She frowned. "However, I'm not certain that it's possible to--"

"The doctor in the Soviet Union," Adrian interrupted. "What's his name?"

"Her name. Dr. Zinaida Ulanova, at the Moscow Neuroscience Institute."

"Could we get access to her research? Do we still have sources close to her?"

Madeline's frown deepened. "I don't believe so. And her data will be guarded quite closely. It will be difficult to break into her offices to retrieve it."

"Why don't we just bring her in?" asked Paul impatiently. "Why waste time trying to duplicate her work?"

Madeline turned to stare at Paul, her expression first startled, then uneasy.

"Bring her in?" asked Adrian. "For interrogation?"

Paul gave a dry laugh. "For recruitment. Let her lead our research team. That way we'd be ahead of Red Cell instead of trying to catch up."

A pioneer in Soviet mind control experimentation -- doing her work for Section? Unthinkable.

"I'm not certain there's a place here for Dr. Frankenstein, Paul," Adrian said scornfully.

"Who better to tell you how to kill the monster?" His steady gaze was a silent challenge.

She held his look for several moments. "What if she can't bring herself to kill it?"

"She won't sabotage us," said Madeline. She looked directly into Adrian's eyes -- her posture rigid, her expression tight, as if she were bracing herself for a blow.

"You're certain of this?" Adrian asked, eyeing Madeline with suspicion. Madeline's body language nearly screamed that she was lying; Adrian wanted to know why.

Paul and Madeline exchanged a look -- they seemed visibly to switch gears, to shift back into that focused connection of before. Transformed, composed, Madeline turned back toward Adrian.

"Dr. Ulanova is a perfectionist," she said. "If there's a way to counteract the device, she would want to find it herself. She's the ideal person to lead our research efforts. In fact, having her work with us would likely cut our development time in half."

Adrian studied the two of them. She had been seeing this type of interaction more and more frequently of late: Madeline deferred to Paul's suggestions; in return, he allowed her to argue his case for him. A few years ago, when Adrian had still seen Paul as the prime candidate for her successor, their behavior would have troubled her. Now, with his status much more ambiguous, it was merely intriguing.

She had grave doubts about the wisdom of Paul's idea -- indeed, she suspected that Madeline did, too, despite her eagerness to support him. Nevertheless, allowing them to proceed would be an interesting experiment: a test of whether Madeline would admit the truth when the doctor inevitably failed, or whether this habit of defending Paul was dangerously ingrained.

"Well, then," Adrian said, smiling brightly, "if you're that confident, then by all means let's use her. I'd like the two of you to put together a profile to bring her in by the end of the week."

They both nodded.

"After she's here," Adrian continued, "you'll take full responsibility for her, Madeline. You'll be her trainer, her mentor, and her supervisor. And you'll report directly to me on the progress of her research. Understood?"

Madeline's face was a mask of calm resolve. "Of course."

"Excellent," said Adrian, standing to leave. "And good luck."

***

Paul pushed open his office door and stepped aside, allowing Madeline to enter first. He caught a fleeting whiff of fragrance as she passed, but it disappeared as she swept through the door and toward her usual chair at the table. She sat, crossed her legs and smoothed out her emerald silk skirt, then looked up at him expectantly.

He took the seat across from her and leaned his elbows on the table, examining her. Her hair fell in carefully styled waves to her shoulders, its dark color contrasting with the rich, cream-colored fabric of her blouse. The blouse was cut provocatively low, yet actually revealed nothing, aside from the necklace that shone against the skin below her neck. The necklace matched her earrings, which in turn matched her watch -- everything meticulously selected, painstakingly put in place. The fastidious attention she lavished on her appearance gave her an elegance that even older operatives lacked: it allowed her to present herself as composed, unruffled, serene -- even at times when he was certain she wasn't.

Times like now.

"You don't think it's going to work, do you?" he asked abruptly.

She cocked her head and looked at him, her eyes soft pools of darkness. "I don't think what's going to work?"

"Recruiting that Soviet doctor. I could tell you thought it was crazy."

She gave a noncommittal shrug. "The probability of success is low, at best. Dr. Ulanova has a difficult personality, shall we say."

He frowned. "Then why did you support me?"

She didn't answer for several moments -- her expression grew distant, as if she were trying to compose an answer. Finally, she took a long breath and spoke. "Your idea is our only hope of achieving Adrian's objective. If we tried to recreate the research using only Dr. Ulanova's files -- even supplemented by my memories from four years ago -- it would take too long. We'd be so far behind Red Cell there would be no point even trying." She smiled faintly. "You hit upon the only solution."

"Then why didn't you just tell her it couldn't be done?" When she looked at him as if he had lost his mind, he laughed and shook his head. "I know, I know."

So Adrian wanted the impossible. That was hardly anything new. What was surprising was how often they actually managed to give it to her.

As he shifted in his chair, the muscles in his lower back tightened with a dull ache; grimacing, he rose to his feet and began to pace. No longer comfortable sitting for any length of time, he had recently replaced his desk with a computer stand that allowed him to work while standing up. The meeting table and chairs he left as a courtesy to others -- mostly to Madeline, who spent more time in his office than anyone else -- but he could never sit there for long. Long ago, back in high school when he thought he was indestructible, he had wrenched his back in a violent football tackle. Recovering after several months, he promptly forgot about it; but now, years later, the injury had come back to haunt him. It was a troubling mark of advancing age: a sign that his days in the field, chasing after men in their twenties, would have to end. To be replaced by what was the question -- albeit one that he tried not to ask himself too often.

"All right," he said, rubbing his chin in thought as he walked back and forth, "you already have a fair amount of intel about this woman -- what's our best extraction scenario? Can we get to her when she's out of the country, at a conference or something?"

Madeline's lips twitched. "She doesn't travel." Her tone suggested a barely suppressed amusement, as if there were a great deal more to her statement than the words themselves revealed.

"Never?"

"Never. Not even out of Moscow." She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, her demeanor relaxing as the conversation shifted away from Adrian and into the comfortable routine of profiling. "In fact, from what I remember about her, she spent all her time either at the Institute or at home."

He sighed. "Fine. So we'll have to do an extraction in-country. What's the security like at the Institute?"

"Tight."

"At her home?"

Her brows furrowed. "I'm not sure. I'll have to find out where she lives. But most likely it's in a block of apartments -- not the easiest place to send a team unnoticed."

"Then we'll have to intercept her on her way from one to the other."

She nodded slowly, but she looked vaguely dissatisfied. She sat still for a moment, then her expression lightened. "There might be a simpler way," she said, her voice filling with pleased realization.

He stopped pacing. When she adopted that self-satisfied air it was usually very good news. "Yes?"

"Egran Petrosian. He knows her, at least casually. He could lure her out to a meeting."

"Hmmm. Wouldn't that put his cover at risk?"

"He's a clever man. I'm sure he can come up with something plausible. I'll contact him through the standard channels tomorrow."

"All right." He nodded. "Actually, I've been hoping to get another assignment with him. He still owes me money from Havana."

"Money? For what?"

"Oh, that's right." He laughed in embarrassment. "You wouldn't know. I forgot you didn't go with us on our, uh, excursion that one night."

She gave him a teasingly disapproving look and rose to her feet. "I'll forward you the profile as soon as I firm up the details with Egran."

"Wait," he said, reaching across the table to touch her arm as she turned to depart.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I've been going over the Matsuda scenario. I have some new data, and I'd appreciate your input before I take it to Adrian."

She flashed a split-second smile and sat down again. "Of course. Let me take a look."

He crossed the room to retrieve a file, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she waited. She looked relaxed, at home, settling into the familiar routine that they'd created over the past couple of years: sharing their work, tossing ideas back and forth, working together to create profiles that surpassed anything else produced in the Section. She spent so many hours working in his office that she had adopted one of the chairs as her own, moving into his space with a cozy sense of intimacy.

A professional intimacy, that is. They no longer shared any other kind. While she had never openly broken off their romance, had never asked him to stop coming to stay with her at night, somehow he had known that he was no longer welcome. That she was closed off to him, except in the narrow arena of work.

There, however, their relationship flourished -- in fact, it intensified, as if all of the energy they previously put into their love affair had been channeled into the smaller universe of the Section, concentrating and magnifying in the process. Over time, they had developed a kind of symbiotic cohesion -- their new relationship became comfortable, natural, inevitable, as if there had never been anything else. She became the only person who understood the workings of his mind, the only person he truly trusted -- and vice versa.

It was a sad irony: had they maintained their romantic relationship, the professional one -- the one he now cherished so much -- might not have deepened as thoroughly. He knew it, accepted it, and realized it was probably for the best. Still, looking at her now, he felt a pang of mourning for what they had -- a wish that somehow, some kind of balance could have been possible.

Gripping the file in his hand, he returned to the table. Dwelling on the past was foolish. He wouldn't succumb to wishful thinking when what they had come to share was so valuable: a joint addiction to the game, an unshakable sense of teamwork, and a growing faith in the rightness of what they were doing. A faith that had nothing to do with Adrian and her rigid Cold War ideology. Indeed, the Cold War had never truly satisfied him. While it was comforting to know that there were distinct teams and clear rules, the fight had often seemed so pointless, pitting one self-interested empire against another. But with the shift in power away from the Soviets and toward organizations like Red Cell, he knew he was facing real evil. Madeline recognized it, too; it showed in the righteous concentration that filled her face when they drew up their battle plans. There were real monsters out there, now, and it was their calling to stop them.

It was a calling far more important than the personal needs of any individual -- the two of them included.

***

Outside Section, the sun hadn't yet risen, and a hard winter rain fell onto the darkened streets. As Madeline made her way along the sidewalk, the wind whipped chilly sheets of water in every direction; it surged under her umbrella in powerful gusts, threatening to wrench it inside out.

After only four blocks, the front of her overcoat was soaked completely through. Fine droplets of water stung as the wind drove them into her face. The morning walk from the metro station to Section had turned into a losing struggle against the elements -- one rendered all the more miserable by the thought that her visitor from the prior evening was still sleeping, snuggled warmly under thick layers of bedcovers.

When she finally arrived at Section, it had rarely seemed so welcoming. With cold hands, she unbuttoned her coat and shook out her umbrella, spraying drops of rainwater across Section's main access area. She folded the umbrella and walked down the hallway. Her wet boots squeaked on the floor as she dripped water in her wake.

Rounding a corner, she saw Adrian striding purposefully down the corridor. There wasn't a drop of rain on the other woman's well-coiffed head; the alert look on her face was that of someone who had already been awake and productive for several hours.

Adrian nodded. "Madeline."

"Good morning," she replied. She hesitated, wondering whether she should wait for a more formal opportunity to meet with Adrian, then decided against it. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Certainly. I'm on my way to Procurement -- why don't you walk along with me?"

Adrian commenced a vigorous stride down the hallway, and Madeline struggled to match the pace without slipping in her wet boots. As they progressed, Adrian smiled at several other operatives, then glanced sideways at Madeline.

"What is it you wished to discuss?"

"It's the research project with Dr. Ulanova."

"Yes?"

"Integrating her into Section may require a considerable amount of my time, at least for the first several weeks."

"Of course. I'd already taken that into consideration." She nodded at another passing operative and turned back toward Madeline. "You'll be exempt from field assignments for the next fortnight at least. You will, however, continue with your full load of profiling and interrogation work." Her gaze sharpened, her expression both expectant and challenging. "I trust that won't be too burdensome?"

"Not at all. Thank you."

"Well, that was simple enough, wasn't it?" They continued in silence for a few moments, and then Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything else?"

Madeline swallowed nervously. "Yes, there is." She had opened the conversation with the simple request -- the one that made no sense to deny. Now, however, it was time to raise a more complicated subject.

Adrian's smile had frozen, rendering her face stiff, mask-like. "Please, go on, dear," she said.

"In order to conduct her research, Dr. Ulanova will need to work on the R&amp;D levels within Section."

"Of course."

"I'm expected to supervise this work, and yet I don't have security clearance to access those departments."

"Ah." There was a long pause, the squeaking of Madeline's boots the only sound. "You raise a valid point. I think it might be necessary to raise your security rating to Class F. That should rectify the problem."

Madeline nodded, relieved that Adrian had agreed so readily to change her status, instead of finding an excuse to find fault with Madeline's qualifications.

"In fact," continued Adrian, "a Class F rating will give you clearance for a great deal more than the R&amp;D levels. You'll be cleared for roughly ninety percent of accessible areas." Adrian gave her a strange look -- part amusement, part something Madeline couldn't quite place. "You'll have the highest clearance of any of the other Level Five operatives, you know. Higher than Paul, even," she said. "I suppose this calls for congratulations, of a sort."

Madeline said nothing, uncertain of how to respond.

"Actually," Adrian said, "I've been considering this reclassification for several months now. It's time for your role here to mature and evolve -- you need to be much more involved in our research and support activities. I think that's where you'll flourish."

"I hope so," Madeline replied warily, surprised at the warm tone of voice her superior had used.

Adrian gave her a slow look up and down, then smiled to herself, as if at a private joke.

"Tell me, Madeline. You've been here at One for four years now -- and part of the organization for how long? Sixteen years?" When Madeline nodded, Adrian continued, "After all this time, you must have developed some ambitions. Where do you see yourself in the long term?"

Madeline hesitated. It was critical that she say the right thing -- that she manage to sound acceptably diligent and loyal, with appropriate goals, but without posing a threat. She glanced at Adrian, trying to judge her mood, and saw an uncharacteristically sincere interest -- Adrian's expression looked almost encouraging. Still, a platitude seemed safer.

"I'd like to help guide the Section into the future in whatever way I can," she finally said, using the most serious tone she could muster.

Adrian's face tightened. As safely vague as Madeline thought her answer had been, she had apparently said something wrong.

"Let's not get _too_ ambitious, dear," said Adrian icily. "You need to leave the guidance to those who are better suited to it."

Madeline's face heated in a flush; to hide it, she looked away.

Adrian placed a hand on Madeline's shoulder. "I think it's time I gave you some very frank advice."

Madeline forced herself to look back at Adrian, wiping all signs of her apprehension off her face.

"Leadership belongs to those who set a good example for others," Adrian said loftily. "And that's not just professionally, but in every aspect of their behavior. I'm afraid you haven't demonstrated that quality yet."

There was nothing to say to this. Madeline stared down the corridor, keeping her expression blank.

Adrian gave Madeline's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You've made remarkable improvements in your work over the past four years. I'm extremely pleased with your performance, as demonstrated by my decision to increase your responsibilities. However…." Adrian withdrew her hand. The movement made Madeline flinch. "What kind of moral tone do you think it sets for the Section when you take a different young man home with you every week?" The gentleness had vanished, replaced by frosty disdain.

Fighting to keep down a surge of resentment, Madeline took a long, careful breath before answering. "I don't know that it's anyone's business," she said coolly, looking Adrian directly in the eye. "I'm not coercing anyone."

Adrian made a "tsk" of disapproval and shook her head. "You see, this is precisely why you aren't meant for a leadership role. If you were, you would instinctively know that in an organization like ours, where we demand that our operatives follow orders even at the risk of death, the leadership must be seen as beyond the weaknesses of mere mortals." Her voice grew stern. "Leaders can't engage in behavior that is even _remotely_ unseemly. The fact that this needs to be pointed out to you demonstrates that you aren't the right sort of person to wield that kind of power."

Madeline stared at a spot on the floor several steps ahead, her anger controlled only by her dazed shock. It was unbelievable. Adrian was opining on morality as if she were a Victorian missionary's wife instead of the woman who routinely sent Madeline out on valentine missions -- and yet somehow she had succeeded in making Madeline feel ashamed.

Adrian's expression softened. "I'm not telling you this to be cruel, Madeline. It's simply an objective observation -- something that you need to know about yourself. If you understand your limitations, then you can be satisfied doing what you can do well."

"And what would that be?"

"You can do the work that no one else has the stomach for. Focus on that. Accept it as who you are." Adrian smiled. "After all, if you try to be someone you're not, you'll only wind up destroying yourself."


	17. Chapter 17

Chilly Moscow air filled the cab of the parked truck. After sitting in it for forty minutes, Paul's feet were numb, even in his heavy boots and thick socks. Next to him, the driver blew in his cupped hands to keep warm, then he rubbed his hands briskly up and down his arms.

Eventually, the two men exchanged a look.

"Turn on the heater," Paul muttered. "This is ridiculous."

The driver started the engine and reached over to switch on the heater. Immediately, a blast of stale air hit Paul's face. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of scorched dust, he turned toward the passenger window and looked out over the park nearby. The driver coughed and cleared his throat with long, rasping hacks.

The truck engine idled loudly. It sent a bone-shaking vibration up through the threadbare seat cushion. Paul shuffled his feet and adjusted the position of his earphone, wishing there were a volume control. He stared out the window at the two figures he was monitoring, as if by concentrating on them he could somehow make them talk more clearly. Finally, he turned to the driver and scowled.

"Switch off the engine. I can't hear anything."

The driver grunted and turned the ignition key. Abruptly, the vibrations and noise ceased, and Egran Petrosian's voice again became audible over the earphone.

"--your cooperation in meeting with me on such short notice, Dr. Ulanova," Petrosian finished.

"Yes, you should be grateful, given that we both know this is a waste of my time," replied Ulanova peevishly, her voice so high-pitched it caused Paul to wince. "I only agreed to speak with you at all because I always walk here on my lunch hour."

Paul watched them in the distance as they strolled along a path near the edge of the park. They made an odd pair, both matched and mismatched: Egran ambled like an awkward giant next to the petite doctor, but their drab winter coats were nearly identical.

Arriving at a fork in the path, Egran headed left -- toward an isolated area, filled with tall bushes that would allow him to overpower Ulanova without attracting attention from stray passersby. However, it appeared she wasn't very interested in being led.

"No, not that path," she snapped.

"There are too many people on the other path," replied Egran, his voice soothing. "We need to speak in confidence, Doctor."

"But I always take this one."

"Why?" Even through the tiny earphone, Paul could hear Egran's exasperation.

"I don't like that other path. And I don't like people who ask me stupid questions."

Paul burst out laughing. He could just picture Egran's face, crimson with anger at the audacity of anyone calling him stupid. Paul had seen him resort to violence over lesser affronts than that.

"Fine," grumbled Egran. "We'll take your path."

As they headed down the path on the right, there were a few moments of silence. Paul fidgeted impatiently.

"I told you I would talk to you for forty-five minutes. You now have thirty-one left," Ulanova said. "What do you want from me?"

"As I told you on the phone," said Egran, the strain of controlling his temper becoming more and more apparent in his voice, "the KGB suspects that there is classified information being leaked by someone working at your Institute. That's why I wanted to speak with you off premises, away from anyone who might try to eavesdrop."

"Why are you repeating what you told me on the phone? Do you actually have questions for me, or not?" She made a noise of disgust. "You now have thirty more minutes."

"Have any of your colleagues have been putting in unusually long hours, or working at odd times?"

She laughed dismissively. "No. I'm the only one who works late -- but that's because I'm the only one who actually bothers to work."

"Are you certain? We're looking for someone who may be looking for an opportunity to copy classified files, or to sabotage test results."

"I already told you, no one at the Institute is a spy," she said. "Lazy idiots, sycophantic fools, hopeless incompetents, yes, the place is full of those. But no spies. None of them would have the nerve." She came to a sudden halt. "If you need to file a report on my interview for your superiors, why don't you just make up some answers? They'll do just as well. That way I can enjoy my lunch hour by myself."

Paul saw her turn and walk away, but before she could take more than a step Egran seized her by the arm. As he dragged her behind a row of bushes, she let loose a piercing shriek and a stream of curses that Paul feared would cause the entire population of the city to come running. Fortunately, they quickly vanished from sight. For a few seconds afterwards, Paul heard crashing and more cursing, and then a sharp yelp from Egran. Finally, the noise subsided.

"Paul?" Egran called out, breathing heavily.

"Report."

"Bring the truck. I'm thirty meters from the street."

Paul nodded at the driver, who restarted the engine, pulled off, and circled around the park. Within moments, they had arrived at the point closest to where Egran had disappeared. Paul jumped out of the truck, jogged to the rear, and banged with his fist on the side of the vehicle. Rumbling noisily, the rear door rolled up, and another operative clambered out, clutching a heavy canvas duffel bag.

The two men dashed into the park. They found Egran in a tall clump of bushes, one of his hands oozing blood, the other clutching the hypodermic he had used to sedate Ulanova. She lay sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, her face smeared with dirt and her black hair tangled with pine needles.

"She bit me, the little bitch," Egran exclaimed.

Paul stifled a laugh. The fact that Egran had trouble overpowering such a tiny female was vastly amusing -- but it was not the sort of thing it would be wise to gloat about too openly.

The operative with the duffel bag stuffed Ulanova into it. He quickly knotted it closed and hoisted the load over his shoulder. All three men hurried back to the truck, but as the operative prepared to swing the duffel bag into the back, Egran snatched it away from him. Grunting angrily, Egran tossed the bag through the air into the rear of the truck, where it landed with a heavy thud.

Paul and the other operative exchanged bemused looks.

"She's going to have a hell of a bruise from that," remarked Paul.

"I hope so," answered Egran, scowling darkly.

Snickering, the other operative climbed into the truck and pulled down the rear door behind him with a slam.

Egran turned to Paul, the tension in his expression ebbing as Ulanova disappeared from view. "You are going to regret recruiting her, mark my words. She has given the KGB no end of trouble over the years."

"How so?" Paul felt a twinge of worry deep in the pit of his stomach. This sounded even worse than what Madeline had led him to believe.

Egran made a face of disgust. "She is a complete egomaniac. She cannot work with anyone. And she thinks she knows better than her superiors." He snorted with dark-humored laughter. "Adrian is going to hate her."

God, it was going to be a disaster. Wonderful.

Paul smiled grimly. "Then we're in for some fun, aren't we?"

***

Lisa glanced up at the Perch the instant she crossed the threshold onto the main floor. It was dark and empty, just as she had hoped. She breathed a sigh of relief and scanned in all directions around her -- the standard complement of operatives walked busily back and forth, but with no missions live, everyone was headed somewhere else.

Except Jules, that is. He sat by himself at Comm, twisting his chair back and forth lazily, chewing on a thumbnail as he stared at his monitor. Lisa walked toward him, her boots thumping on the floor as she approached. When she neared, he looked up and his face lit expectantly. He sat up straight and stopped his nailbiting, a hint of anxiety in his eyes.

"Have you got it?" he asked in a low voice.

Lisa nodded wordlessly. After looking around to make sure no one was watching, she removed a floppy disk she had hidden within the pages of a report and offered it to him.

"Ah, merci beaucoup," he said, relaxing and smiling broadly. He took the disk and inserted it into his computer, then began to type on his keyboard as he whistled cheerfully. When his screen showed the contents of the disk, he grinned. "Oh, beautiful! You've saved me days of work." He looked back up at her and winked. "I'll probably have something else for you tomorrow."

Lisa regarded him without expression. "Fine."

He frowned, hesitant, and cleared his throat. "Uh, my shift ends in an hour. You want to--"

"No," she said abruptly. "I'm busy."

Without bothering to wait for his reaction, she turned and headed toward a nearby terminal. She slid into the seat and pulled the keyboard toward her. Typing rapidly, she logged onto the system; as she waited for the computer to respond, she glanced back over at Jules. He stared at her like a stray dog that had just been kicked; in response, she simply hardened her expression. He looked away, his face reddening.

She returned her attention to the monitor and began to scroll through directories: directories she had no authorization to access, no legitimate business viewing. Yet she browsed through them with impunity -- even with the head of Comm sitting mere feet away.

He knew exactly what she was doing, of course. In fact, he was probably monitoring her progress through the system as she typed. But it didn't matter. As long as she did work for him in secret, he looked the other way. The disk she handed him -- like the one she gave him week before, and the other the week before that -- was payment for his silence.

The payment was ongoing, the supply of assignments endless. Writing software programs, finding bugs in someone else's, patching security holes -- she did it all. Most of the jobs were ridiculously easy, although she never let him know that -- it would only encourage him to give her even more. As it was, he was more dependent on her than he was on his own staff. She was, de facto, his chief troubleshooter, and she had saved his sorry butt more times than she could count.

In all the ways that mattered, she ran Comm -- as Jules knew full well. Formally, however, she was still a lowly cold op, laying her life on the line week after week. And now, she knew she'd stay that way forever -- or until she met a bullet with her name on it.

It was amazing, really. She had struggled so hard and yet still failed. She had taught herself to be the best programmer -- and then the best network administrator -- ever to set foot in Section. Thanks to Madeline's assistance, her personnel file was overflowing with references to her computer aptitude. She had even managed to win over Jules, tossing aside her shame to hint she would happily trade sexual favors for his support. That, thankfully, hadn't been necessary -- when it finally dawned on him that she was willing to let him take the credit for her work, he submitted an enthusiastic request to Adrian for her transfer. She rejoiced, thinking she had it made -- out of the field, with its mounting death tolls, and into a cushy position at Comm.

It was the embarrassed expression on Jules's face that told her otherwise, even before he opened his mouth to speak. Adrian had denied the transfer request, even after -- so Jules claimed -- he had argued her case. Actually, she believed him: he had looked so ashamed, so humiliated to admit that he had less influence than he thought, that she knew he wasn't lying.

Incredible. Everything had gone right and had still managed to go wrong.

Fortunately, she no longer gave a shit. Not about Comm, not about Section, not about her own life expectancy. The only thing she cared about was protecting Seymour: making sure that his captivity -- while still enslavement -- at least was a comfortable one. So she did whatever it took to make that happen. Breaking into the network to give Mireille her little perks. Doing work for Jules so he'd look the other way when she accessed the system. Doing whatever the hell else was necessary to make sure her son got to live like a human being -- or as close to that as she could manage.

It was a strange web she was caught in: a collection of people who despised each other, exchanging favors in secret. But that was the way Section worked, it seemed. Maybe that was how the whole world worked, for that matter. It was a sad reality. But when confronted with reality, one really only had two choices: live in denial, or adapt. She had decided to choose the latter.

She sighed and returned her focus to the data on the computer screen. There it was: Level 16 Personnel Database. She opened the file, found the entry for Martin, Mireille L., typed in an upgraded rating, disguised the source of the upgrade, and then closed the file again. Boom! Done. It had taken all of three minutes.

Just as her hands were poised to hit the keys to log off the terminal, she hesitated, and a ripple of fear ran through her nerves. Small favors were one thing, but Mireille was getting too damned greedy. If anyone questioned this, they were all dead.

As her mouth grew dry, her heart began to thud. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply; slowly, the fear coalesced into resentment, then into bitterness, then into angry determination.

Mireille wanted a new apartment? Fine. But why should Lisa let the housing drones pick it for her, when she could do it herself? Yeah, she could give Mireille just what she deserved.

She pulled up the Accommodations database and browsed through the open listings. Walking distance from Section, hmm? There were three matching locations. She read through the descriptions for each one, and then started smiling.

_Maintenance Report: Resident has complained about plumbing problems, including repeated toilet backups. Inspection revealed deteriorated pipes which were patched, but due to the age of the building, recurrence is inevitable. Resident has requested transfer to other location._

Oh, that was just too perfect. With a few swift keystrokes, Lisa assigned Mireille her new apartment.

_Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart_, she thought. _I might just give it to you._

***

The car rolled smoothly through the early evening traffic -- slowing, accelerating, merging, and turning -- and headed out of the city toward Adrian's secluded estate. In the rear seat, Adrian allowed the report she had been reading to fall open in her lap, absentmindedly watching the uniformed driver as he reached with a white-gloved hand to start the turn signal. It blinked on and off with a faint clicking sound for several seconds; when the car changed lanes, the signal switched off and a hushed silence fell onto the car's interior.

Through the tinted windows, the streets took on an alien quality. It was as if far more than a few inches of glass and metal separated Adrian from the world outside -- as if that world were a projection, not entirely real. Only her immediate surroundings truly seemed to exist: the leather-padded bubble of the car, the rarified air within the Section, her heavily guarded estate and its carefully tended garden, her private jets with their deferentially attentive crews. Day after day, she moved from one sealed environment to another, uncontaminated by anything else.

Years ago, she used to try and escape to the outside -- to walk the streets, to go into shops, parks and restaurants, to talk to ordinary people. She thought it would help her stay grounded, that it could keep her from succumbing to that disease of superiority that so often afflicted those wielding power. Eventually, however, she realized that it accomplished nothing. Engaging in superficial small talk with random members of the public was about as meaningful as the Queen of England shaking hands with well-wishers outside the gates of Buckingham Palace: no real connection could be made when she lived in a completely different universe. And so she gave up.

Power didn't just corrupt: it isolated, and through isolation distorted reality. It was unfortunate, even dangerous -- but thoroughly inescapable.

She looked back at the document on her lap: the next quarter's budget, received from Center earlier in the day. She flipped through the pages to the end, where a series of colorful tables summarized the allocations. She studied them, her interest growing, then gripped the document tightly when she spotted the anomaly. Section One's allocation had declined -- ever so slightly -- yet again, making an eleven percent reduction over the past eighteen months.

She smiled bitterly. Did Phillip think she wouldn't notice? If so, he was a bigger fool than she'd realized.

There was no doubt that the overall funding available to the Agency was increasing. It had been throughout the decade, thanks to the aggressive, anti-communist stance adopted by the conservative administrations that dominated so many governments in the West. But Phillip, apparently, wanted to keep those funds all for Center -- to pay for his precious studies and think tanks and conferences. This, regardless of how his actions adversely affected the Sections' ability to run real-life missions.

It was so shortsighted. Even Phillip should have known better. Without missions -- without concrete results that they could show their sponsors -- where would they be in the long run?

Or rather, where would _she_ be in the long run?

She closed the report with an angry snap. Phillip wasn't just hoarding funds because he was greedy -- he actually wanted her to fail.

So, he had finally reneged on his longstanding promise to leave the Sections alone. How gratifying to know that he had lived down to her expectations. The only thing that really surprised her was that it had taken him so many years to do so. That, perhaps, was because he was more of a coward than she had anticipated.

It was a nasty little game he was playing. A passive-aggressive ploy by a man who didn't dare challenge her directly -- by a man who had only a hundredth of her intelligence, and even less integrity.

With such a man, it wasn't sufficient to outplay him. She would have to destroy him.

She looked back out the window, her resolve hardening as she stared at the passing streets. She might be insulated -- even isolated -- from the hard world outside. But she hadn't forgotten how to fight.

***

Madeline made her way through Containment, turning a corner and dodging two stocky operatives as they dragged a struggling captive down the hallway. She passed a series of identical closed doors, glancing at small video screens embedded in the wall beside each one, and examined the grainy, black and white images from the interior of each locked room.

Eventually, she found the holding cell she was looking for. Inside, a woman with short, black hair paced relentlessly back and forth: Zinaida Ulanova, who had awakened from her sedation little more than an hour before. Her movements were angry; her steps jerky; her shoulders hunched and tense. She seemed ready to erupt with anxious energy, and her petite, birdlike frame almost shook with barely-contained rage.

When Ulanova happened to look directly at the camera, Madeline started. The other woman's gaze -- even filtered through the lens of the camera -- gave her an odd sense of disorientation. Those sharp features, that flare of arrogance in Ulanova's expression, were so familiar -- but so wrong. To see someone from her old, undercover life here in Section felt like she was caught between two parallel universes verging violently together. Two universes that were never, ever supposed to mix.

Swallowing uncomfortably, she put those thoughts aside. She wiped her face clean of all expression and pushed open the door. She walked in cautiously -- her demeanor non-threatening but alert, poised for a hostile reaction.

Ulanova whipped her head around to look toward the door, her expression angry and defiant. A split second later, the defiance froze into a look of profound shock.

"Julia?" she gasped, calling out Madeline's old mission name.

Madeline closed the door behind her. As it clicked shut, she felt a cold rush of memories swarm around her. She had answered to that name, twenty-four hours a day, for ten full years. Under that name, she had performed the unspeakable. Committed atrocities. Sat by and observed, calmly taking notes, as criminals and innocents alike suffered unimaginable agony and died.

She had survived mentally by segregating that person into a separate portion of her brain, constructing boundaries to keep "Julia" completely separate from Madeline, the Section operative, the person who still had a sense of right and wrong, who watched and reported on Julia's activities with horror and disgust. When her undercover assignment had ended, she thought that person had died forever. Her techniques survived, but only under tight control -- employed only against people who were clearly the enemy, who in some way brought it upon themselves. Never again against innocents, the defenseless, the blameless. Or so she assured herself.

But was that other persona really dead, or just lurking somewhere?

Ulanova gaped at her. "I thought you were dead," she murmured in Russian.

"I am," Madeline answered -- perhaps a little too forcefully, as if she were lashing out at the woman for inadvertently echoing her own thoughts. Forcing herself to relax, she folded her hands in front of her and smiled, switching to English. "But then again, so are you."

Ulanova gulped, but then her expression sharpened. "You're not KGB, are you?" she asked, following Madeline's lead by speaking in English. When Madeline shook her head, she frowned. "What is this place?"

"It's called Section One."

"So it _does_ exist," Ulanova whispered, seemingly more to herself than to Madeline. A look of resigned but dignified sadness filled her face. "Are you going to kill me?"

"That remains to be seen."

Ulanova opened her mouth as if to say something further, but stopped. She dropped her gaze down toward the floor, her face turning a sickly white.

"Zina," said Madeline sternly, using the familiar form of her name. "Look at me."

Ulanova looked up. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her expression was angry and her mouth pinched in a tight line.

"You're here to continue your work," said Madeline. "We'll provide you with a staff and facilities far better than anything you had at home. As long as you comply, you'll be fine." Madeline tried to sound reassuring, but her words seemed hopelessly unconvincing. Ulanova, from what she remembered, was simply too rigid psychologically to adapt to being brought into Section. The only real question was whether her lifespan would be measured in months, or only weeks.

Ulanova exhaled loudly, the tension in her posture slowly easing. She looked around the room with a curious expression. "Is this what happened to you?" When Madeline said nothing, she continued, "That car crash you died in, that was staged so they could bring you here?"

It was true, but not the way Ulanova meant -- she had no idea that "Julia" never really existed in the first place. Deciding it would take too long to explain, Madeline chose to ignore the question.

"I've been assigned to supervise your work and to help you get settled in," she announced. "If you're ready, I can take you to your living quarters."

When Ulanova nodded, Madeline opened the door and led her from the room. They passed through a set of security doors, then approached a row of elevators. Stepping into an open car, they stood, silently, as Madeline pressed a button and the doors closed.

With a jerk and a noisy hum, the elevator began its ascent. Ulanova glanced sideways at Madeline.

"Will I be working with Dr. Ohanian also?" she asked, her tone cautious but friendly.

Hearing the name of her undercover target -- the man who had taught her everything she knew about torture and interrogation -- Madeline felt a literal chill, as if his ghost had placed his hand on her shoulder. She had managed to put him out of her mind for the last four years -- but now, hearing his name spoken aloud, it reminded her that in some disturbing way, she missed him.

"He's dead," she said brusquely, as if her vehemence could shove his memory away. When Ulanova frowned, she added, "Actually dead."

"What happened to him?"

She leveled a steady gaze at Ulanova and held it for several seconds. "I killed him."

Ulanova paled, taking a step backwards so that she bumped against the far wall of the car. Madeline stared at her, pinning her in place until the elevator finally halted. She stepped out and looked over her shoulder at Ulanova, who hung back.

"This way, please," she said, courteous but firm.

She led Ulanova along more hallways, stopping when she reached a nondescript door. She punched in a code to unlock it, swung the door open, and gestured for Ulanova to enter.

The quarters were simple but adequate, much like a generic hotel room. There was a table, chairs, a bed, a small bathroom through a side door, but no phone, no television, no radio -- all links to the outside world conspicuously absent.

"Make yourself comfortable. Someone will come by to bring you dinner in an hour."

Ulanova nodded slowly, looking around the room with a dazed expression.

Madeline placed her hand gently on Ulanova's arm. "I'm afraid that until you're better integrated into the organization, you're going to be restricted to quarters when you aren't under supervision. Is there anything I can bring you?"

Ulanova frowned and shook her head.

"Something to read?"

"No," she said, staring blankly toward the far side of the room. Suddenly, she gave Madeline a pained look. "Does my father think I'm dead?"

"Your father?"

"He's sick. I take care of him. I'm the only person he has…." Ulanova turned away, her voice fading.

For a second, Madeline considered inventing some sort of comforting story. She quickly thought better of it -- if she found out, Ulanova was not the sort to forgive being lied to.

"Yes, he thinks you're dead. I'm sorry."

Ulanova's expression tightened, but she managed to keep herself under control. "I see."

Madeline waited a few moments. When it seemed that Ulanova had nothing more to say, Madeline turned toward the door. "I'll leave you for now. I'll be back first thing in the morning to show you the lab."

"Wait," Ulanova called out.

Madeline stopped and looked back.

"There is something you can bring."

"What's that?"

"A chessboard and set. That is, if…." Ulanova hesitated.

"If?"

"If you'll play a game with me."

Madeline raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised that the notoriously antisocial Ulanova would want company, especially under the circumstances.

"We used to, back when you were visiting the Institute. As I recall, you weren't a bad player. Though not as good as me." Ulanova smiled weakly.

How interesting. Ulanova was reaching out -- to the only link to her old life, the only familiar person in this new environment. It was a surprisingly healthy coping mechanism for someone Madeline had expected to shrink into withdrawn isolation. Perhaps there was some hope for her after all -- and, more importantly, for the project that depended upon her expertise.

"I'd love to," Madeline said, carefully modulating her tone so that it conveyed precisely the right level of comradeship. "I'll be back in a few hours, after you've had a chance to relax and eat."

"Thank you," said Ulanova. "It's good to see you again, Julia."

Madeline repressed a flinch at hearing that name again. "I go by a different name here. From now on, please call me Madeline."


	18. Chapter 18

His muscles stiffening, Charles shifted in the rigid chair and cast his gaze around Adrian's office. Through the picture window to his right, he could see the main floor below; there, Adrian stood, engrossed in a discussion with Jules. Despite her command that Charles appear in her office at 15:30 sharp, she seemed in no hurry to come upstairs herself.

So he waited, patiently, and tried to ignore the man in the chair beside him.

He and Paul Wolfe hadn't spoken a word for a full twenty minutes. Instead, Charles engaged in a tremendous effort to look away from Paul at all times. It wasn't an easy task when sitting inches apart, but Charles was determined: he stared out the window, at the floor, at the polished surface of Adrian's desk, at the crystal vase full of bright pink flowers, at anything that didn't bring his line of vision in Paul's direction.

The more he tried to look elsewhere, however, the more aware of Paul's presence he became. A pent-up energy emanated from the other man, a strange magnetic force that drew one's gaze toward him even as one felt apprehensive of what one might see. It was something Paul carried with him constantly of late, as if he wore a cloak of seething, sublimated menace.

In the past, Paul had been prone to explosions of temper that flashed violently and then subsided, like sudden summer thunderstorms. Now, years later, he was colder, more controlled, and -- in Charles's opinion -- far more dangerous. His hostility was unremitting, his anger concentrated. Focused. Relentless.

He had even changed his style of dress to match this new persona. Gone were the quasi-military commando-style outfits of trousers, sweater, and boots that he used to favor. These days, when not on a mission, he wore suits or sportscoats. Tailored outfits that nearly shouted their inflated pricetags.

Charles had worn such suits for years. On him, they looked like the uniform of a lawyer or a stockbroker. On Paul, however, they conferred an air of arrogant authority. They made him look like a man who was accustomed to owning things. And to getting his way.

Charles blinked, startled, when Adrian swept past him toward her desk. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even heard her come in.

"Thank you for waiting, gentlemen," she said.

Charles sat forward as Adrian settled behind her desk. Paul, in contrast, folded his arms and leaned back insolently. His demeanor struck Charles as deliberately disrespectful -- enough so to be provocative, but stopping just short of insubordination.

If Adrian noticed Paul's body language, she ignored it. She smiled, her expression oddly distant.

"As my two senior team leaders," she said, "you need to be kept abreast of certain developments." Her gaze shifted from one man to the other, but seemed somehow out of focus, lacking its usual sharp edge.

At this statement, Paul finally sat up straight. Charles frowned, trying -- and failing -- to imagine what sort of announcement was forthcoming.

She paused for long enough that it began to become uncomfortable. "Section One has been facing budgetary cutbacks for more than a year now," she finally continued. "I have every reason to expect those reductions will continue."

Charles raised his eyebrows. In his fifteen years at Section, not once had Adrian ever shared such concerns with subordinates.

"Over the past few months," she said, "I have endeavored to operate as usual, despite these rather trying circumstances. However, I'm afraid the time has come to engage in some belt-tightening."

The two men exchanged concerned glances.

"Effective immediately," she announced, "we will be scaling back the manpower devoted to operations against Class 3 entities. You'll have to make do with reduced teams. I want you to start revising your profiles and training strategies accordingly."

Paul scowled. "Class 3 is the last place we should cut. That's where the threat is."

Adrian's smile was brittle. "Thank you for your input, Paul. However, I've weighed the options very carefully."

Charles watched with interest as Paul and Adrian held a long, frigid look. This wasn't the first time their interactions had grown tense; in recent months, it had been a more common occurrence than not. In fact, it was becoming harder and harder for Charles to remember the time when Adrian had treated Paul as her favorite, her most likely successor. Now, that was no longer an issue, as even she had apparently come to see he was unsuitable.

How things had changed. Only two years before, Charles had felt compelled to turn to George, taking an enormous risk by going behind Adrian's back to complain about her favoritism. All for nothing, as it turned out. If he had kept his mouth shut, the problem would have solved itself.

Unfortunately, he hadn't been patient enough. And his contact with George had brought unexpected -- and rather unwelcome -- consequences. Somehow, what he thought was a one-time appeal for help had turned into something else entirely: George kept contacting him, prodding him for information, demanding that he report surreptitiously on the activities of his colleagues. To what end, Charles wasn't certain. At first, it had seemed George was merely following up on Charles's warnings about Paul. But as Paul's standing with Adrian had fallen, George's interest hadn't waned; instead, his focus merely broadened.

But if George had a larger purpose, Charles wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Blinking, he forced himself to return to the present.

"We'll adjust to the smaller teams, of course," he said. "While I'd like to have better options, I understand that's not always possible."

"Thank you," said Adrian. She looked back toward Paul. "I do hope you can follow Charles's example."

As Paul turned to stare at him, Charles felt as if a bucket of icewater had been dumped on his head.

"Follow Charles's example?" Paul asked, his voice low and contemptuous. "I'll manage with smaller teams, if that's what you mean."

It took all of Charles's self-control not to stand and demand that Paul take his insults outside, man to man. Instead, he satisfied himself with returning the disdainful glare.

Adrian seemed oblivious to the hostility. "That will do," she replied. Once again, her attention wandered. "Now, gentlemen," she said, already looking away, "I have other pressing work. Thank you for your time."

***

Grasping the ice cube with a pair of tongs, George lifted it out of the ice bucket and dropped it into the glass. It fell with a sharp clink. He added another, then he set down the tongs and reached for a nearby bottle of gin. As he poured it, the ice cracked loudly; he filled the remainder of the glass with tonic water and added a twist of lime.

"There you are," he said, smiling as he handed Adrian the glass. "A double, just as you like it."

"Thank you." She took the glass and nodded gratefully.

He mixed his own drink and returned the bottles to the burnished mahogany liquor cabinet. He sat in the leather armchair beside her, leaned back comfortably, and swallowed a sip.

Ah. Crisp. Clean. Slightly bracing. Just the thing for late afternoon. Or, well, maybe not so late. He set down his glass and glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Perhaps a bit early for drinks, but with Adrian in town he wouldn't be getting any more work done anyway. Indeed, when she had called that morning to advise him of her arrival, he'd had to cancel three appointments to accommodate her schedule. God only knew when he would be able to reschedule them again.

One would have thought that the Commander of the Sections would have kept her Second-in-Command better apprised of her travel plans. But to her, such things had always been an afterthought.

The question was: why was she visiting? She rarely paid notice to the other Sections, so long as no problems were brought to her attention. In fact, she expressed her dislike of Brussels at every opportunity. It was so full of bureaucrats and pencil-pushers, she always delighted in claiming, that the streets were paved with red tape.

Nevertheless, here she was. Sloshing the ice around her drink distractedly, with a strangely apprehensive expression on her face. He watched and waited.

Eventually, she spoke. "You'll be happy to know I've given a promotion to one of your protégés," she said, adding a faintly mocking bite to her enunciation of the final word. "Or at least a security upgrade."

"Indeed?" He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a curious expression. He already knew what Adrian meant, thanks to Madeline's latest debrief, but forced himself to play innocent.

"I've given Madeline some additional responsibilities. She'll be handling more of One's research and support activities from now on."

He nodded sagely. "Very good. I've always thought she had the aptitude for a more supervisory role."

"So you keep saying." She looked him up and down, her expression amused. "We'll see how she performs."

He bit down on the urge to smile at that remark. He would be very anxious indeed to see how Madeline would perform, but not in quite the way Adrian meant. Madeline's security upgrade had been an unexpected but marvelous gift; now, between the two of them, Madeline and Charles had access to virtually everything within Section One. Furthermore, because neither of them knew that the other was an informant, they were a perfect check and balance against each other. Why, he probably knew more about what was really going on at One than anyone there, including Adrian herself.

Not that it mattered quite as much as it used to. Once he reached his understanding with Phillip about the future of the organization, his plan to oust Adrian had become unnecessary, and so had all the subterfuge that went with it. Still, he chose to maintain his relationship with her subordinates. Once developed, a good informant was like gold bullion -- something to hoard in case disaster ever struck.

Adrian sipped her drink again. She stared at the tapestry on the wall across the room, and the look in her eyes grew distant and reflective. After a long pause, she sighed and set down her glass.

"I didn't come all the way here to inform you about minor personnel changes, as I'm sure you've guessed."

He sat up, waiting for her to continue.

Her expression darkened. "It's Phillip. He's gone too far."

George's heart rate accelerated. "What's he done this time?" He chuckled sympathetically, struggling not to show his nervousness. "Don't tell me he's foisting another genetics experiment upon you."

"No, not like that. It's not anything specific, actually. Rather, it's his general attitude."

"What do you mean?"

The muscles around her mouth tightened as if she had tasted something foul. "He thinks it's a hierarchy, with him at the top of the pyramid."

"But it is," he said, shrugging.

"No, it's not," she snapped. "We were supposed to be autonomous. Sister organizations, but autonomous."

He tried to resist rolling his eyes. There she went again, off on her pet delusion. Sister organizations, with one controlling the other's budget? Preposterous.

"If that were the case," he countered smoothly, hoping he could calm her down, "we'd get our funding directly from the Council, not funneled through Center. Center has a certain priority. We have to accept that."

She regarded him with a look of appalled outrage, as if he had just denied the divinity of her chosen deity.

"That arrangement was made for the Council's administrative convenience, not as a reflection of each entity's status. I would never have agreed to it had I not been assured of that fact." Her voice was icy, her eyes glittering. "However, I believe you've hit upon the source of the problem. Phillip has started to believe that because he controls the purse strings, that he's in charge." Her jaw twitched slightly. "I believe it's time he was set straight."

"What do you propose to do?"

"I plan to approach the Council and request that our funding be severed from Center's, and that we be treated as the independent organizations we were always intended to be," she answered briskly. "It's the only way."

George hid his reaction by taking another sip of his drink; the cold liquid coated his suddenly dry throat. This was a complication, certainly, but not necessarily a disaster. While the Council wasn't wholly on Phillip's side, it was still unlikely to grant such a request. There was no need to panic just yet.

"Do you think they'll agree?" He kept his voice relaxed.

Adrian sniffed. "Unfortunately, the Council is packed with Phillip's cronies. Nitwits and baboons, the whole lot of them" she said. Then a sly smile crept across her face. "But I have something planned that might persuade them."

He took a moment to find his voice. "What?" he asked hoarsely.

"A graphic demonstration of the problems that Phillip's budget cutbacks are causing Section One. A failed mission, to be exact." She beamed triumphantly and reached for her drink.

Mortified, he froze, unable to do anything but stare at Adrian. What in God's name was she up to?

"First," she explained, "I'll send several detailed memos outlining my fears that this quarter's funding reductions will adversely impact our operations. Being a bureaucracy, the Council will of course ignore them." She chuckled. "However, the memos will provide the paper trail I'll rely upon later. After several such warnings go unheeded, I'll arrange for one of our missions to fail due to inadequate staffing -- which of course I will blame on the budget cutbacks."

"You'll _arrange_ for a mission to fail?"

"Precisely. I want it to be controlled, so as to minimize the actual damage. It will be a disaster, but not so much of one that we can't recover. And because I will have predicted it, I won't be to blame."

"You're going to sacrifice a mission to make a point with the Council?" He knew he was repeating himself -- and probably sounded like an idiot -- but he simply couldn't help himself.

She gave him a patronizing shake of her head. "George, George, my dear, you should know how these things work by now. Bureaucrats never take action to fix anything until _after_ a problem occurs. I'll give them one. But I'll make sure that it's a problem of my choosing, and that it occurs on _my_ schedule."

Frantic, he tried to control his thoughts. He needed to know as much as possible about her plan, but couldn't appear overanxious. He forced himself to wait to speak, crossing one leg over the other, brushing a piece of lint off his trouser-leg. Then he looked up again.

"Have you chosen the mission?" he asked as calmly as he could manage, although he could swear his pounding heart must be audible a mile away.

"Yes," she replied, her smile brightening. "We've been tracking Cyrus Norasty, one of Red Cell's founders, for several months now. I believe we're quite close to pinpointing his location. When we launch the mission to eliminate him, I'm going to make sure it fails. Spectacularly." She looked gleeful, as if she were about to rub her hands together in delight.

"You'll let him escape?" he asked numbly.

"For the time being. We can intercept him later."

Bloody hell. If she succeeded in convincing the Council to sever the ties between the Sections and Center, she would be untouchable -- and he would never escape from underneath her shadow. Yet as infuriating as this development was, at the same time he found himself growing perversely angry that she didn't ask for his help first. She just went ahead and made up her mind: another reminder of what little esteem she held his opinion in.

"In any event," she added, her smile disappearing, "I came to warn you ahead of time. Once Phillip finds out I've contacted the Council, things could get ugly -- and you might get caught in the crossfire. You need to prepare yourself." She looked into his eyes, her expression full of concern.

"I appreciate the warning." He forced a wan smile.

Watching him, her gaze softened. Suddenly, she looked tired, sad, and rather unsure of herself. Not like Adrian at all.

"It's the least I could do, George. You've been a rock all these years. I haven't let you know often enough how much I depend on you."

His stomach filled with a nauseating surge of guilt. If only she had said something like that years before. If only she had backed up that sentiment with real action, with treatment that showed genuine respect, things wouldn't have come to this. He had been so willing to please her, if only she hadn't taken him for granted.

But now, it was too late. Tomorrow, he would call Phillip and betray her confidence. For which he hated himself -- which in turn made him hate her.

_Look what you've made me become_, he thought with loathing.

"Well," he said with false cheer, "I think it's time I freshened your drink. A dependable fellow like myself can't be a neglectful host, now can I?"

***

Madeline took her time as she proceeded through the corridors; her pace relaxed, she nodded warmly at the lab workers as they walked by. In her burgundy dress and gold jewelry, she was the only splash of color in a stream of white labcoats. But her atypical appearance wasn't the reason people stepped out of her way, falling aside like waves sliced by the prow of a ship. They drew back because of who she was: her clothing was simply a vivid illustration of her status.

By now, that status was well established. It hadn't taken long. When she first began to visit the labs, the staff had treated her cordially, but as someone irrelevant to their work: at most, a nuisance to be tolerated under Adrian's orders. Then, a few had learned the details of her other duties within Section. Almost overnight, their attitude shifted; now, their behavior toward her was a combination of obsequiousness and terror. Their reaction amused her in its excessiveness, but it also struck her as potentially useful. So she encouraged their paranoia by taking pains to appear to be assessing them, even when she wasn't.

As she passed open doorways, she glanced in, noting which rooms were quiet and which revealed flashes of activity. If a lab seemed too quiet, she paused and waited until one of the workers caught her eye. She then smiled and moved on, knowing that her watchful presence had been noticed and would linger intangibly long after she left.

She was, in fact, the closest thing to outside supervision the labs had had in years. As long as they produced what she wanted, Adrian took little notice of them: her interest, as always, was in the glamorous departments, the ones directly connected to missions or intelligence. The other parts of Section, those devoted to mundane activities like research and support, were neglected: receiving little to no scrutiny when things went smoothly; suffering sweeping and arbitrary purges when something went wrong.

It was a shortsighted way to treat the departments that, Madeline was coming to understand, were the real life force of Section. Supplies, accommodations, research, maintenance, surveillance, housekeeping -- without these ordinary or even distasteful things, the organization would cease to function. Yet Adrian took them all for granted, as if the personnel carrying out these functions were insignificant. As if they were somehow lesser beings, an underclass born to serve Section's elite without complaint. Much the way she apparently thought of Madeline herself, as illustrated by her remarks about Madeline's lack of qualification for leadership.

They were therefore the perfect constituents of a power base: an army, invisible yet everywhere, with the power to do almost anything and yet escape notice because of their very ubiquity. At the moment, they feared her. That was as it should be. Soon, she would get them to depend on her. She would cultivate them, win them over, become their advocate, benefactor, and protector. She would keep their secrets, dole out favors, and intervene on their behalf.

In return, she would ask for nothing. Yet.

Rounding a corner into the most isolated area of the labs, she heard the unmistakable sound of Ulanova's high-pitched voice.

"Stop standing around and work, you cretins!" Ulanova shrieked.

As the shriek echoed off the hard surface of the floor and walls, a smash of shattering glass sounded from the room at the end of the hall.

Alarmed, Madeline picked up her pace and hurried through the door. Inside, a lab assistant scrambled toward a shower and frantically yanked the pull-chain, releasing a powerful stream of water on top of his head. As he drenched himself, spitting out water while his soaked clothing clung to his thin frame, the other workers dashed around in a panic. One of them flung powder on the mess of broken glass and clear liquid strewn along the floor, sending a wisp of white gas into the air; another pulled a switch, starting a roar from a row of overhead vents. The other technicians coughed and milled around helplessly; seconds later, Madeline wrinkled her face as an acrid smell made its way across the room.

The air cleared, and the coughing subsided. Several of the lab assistants noticed Madeline, and the fear on their faces turned to relief. Others snuck nervous glances toward the far end of the room, where Ulanova stood glowering, arms folded across her chest.

"Zina," said Madeline, smiling as if nothing unusual were going on, "do you have a moment?"

Ulanova gave the assembled assistants a final glare, then turned her gaze toward Madeline, nodding.

"Your office, I think," Madeline suggested.

Ulanova disappeared into a small side office. Madeline smiled reassuringly as she passed the anxious-looking assistants, then entered Ulanova's office and closed the door behind her. Ulanova had taken a seat behind her desk; Madeline leaned against the door.

"What was that about?" She kept her voice soft and non-threatening.

Ulanova twisted her sharp features into a grimace. "Some of these assistants are so stupid. Where does Section recruit them? I've seen circus animals with better training."

Madeline shrugged. "We have to work with what we have." She held back a sigh. "Now, tell me what happened, please."

Ulanova's facial muscles tightened. "I might have thrown something at them," she answered sourly. When Madeline frowned, she added, "They weren't working hard enough. I have no use for people who are lazy."

"Zina," Madeline reproached.

Ulanova's expression turned defiant. "It worked. I've never seen them move so fast before."

"We can't go maiming people to make them work faster."

"Why not? We cancel people for making mistakes. What is the difference?"

The question stopped Madeline short for several seconds. There had to be a difference, and yet for a dizzying instant she couldn't think of one. A feeling of discomfort -- almost anxiety -- washed over her, as she struggled to find a way to justify the policy. A policy that she hadn't been responsible for creating. A policy that at one point in the hazy past had shocked her, but that she had lived under for so long it had come to seem like a law of nature. Adrian's policy -- but now, somehow, hers to defend.

Finally, to her relief, an answer came to her.

"Cancellation is an extreme measure, carried out with strict procedural safeguards, and only upon approval from Adrian herself," she explained slowly, as if she were tasting her words, testing out their sound. "It's not the same thing as arbitrary, on-the-spot corporal punishment. If we allowed that, everyone in a supervisory position would make his own rules, and Section would collapse into chaos."

When she finished, she took a deep breath. That was it. Control over chaos. Section made harsh -- even cruel -- demands, but so long as the rules were formalized, and applied impartially to everyone, they were fair. However, if that harshness were ever freed from procedural restraints, if its application became subject to an individual's whim or emotion, Section would become something monstrous. That was the difference, and it was a critical one.

Ulanova rolled her eyes. "Fine. I will handhold these imbeciles until the paperwork makes its way up to Adrian. And then I will wait until Her Highness gets around to approving it." She smirked. "After all, we would not want to do anything without the proper forms being filled out."

Ulanova's demeanor was annoyed, but she had clearly given in. As a reward for her compliance, she therefore needed a bit of an ego stroke. Taming Ulanova's temper was a delicate art form, but it was worth the effort if it enhanced Madeline's influence over the labs. Indeed, seeing the magical effect she had on the doctor, several lab operatives had already approached her for assistance with other personality conflicts among the staff. Like a snake charmer, she mesmerized them all into good behavior -- and the more often she intervened, the more skilled she became.

"I do understand your staffing problems," she said. "Section hasn't been giving the care to recruitment of research operatives that perhaps it ought to."

Ulanova tossed her head and snorted. "It might help if you started looking for homo sapiens instead of monkeys."

Madeline chuckled, pointedly demonstrating her appreciation of the joke. Then she lowered her voice, making it richly conspiratorial. "Until now, recruitment isn't an area I've had any responsibility for. However, based on your complaints, I was able to speak with Adrian and make some suggestions."

"Oh?" A look of hopeful interest lit Ulanova's face.

"I convinced her to approve the recruitment of five new researchers. Including the one you wanted so badly."

Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Not…?"

Madeline smiled. "Oh, yes. The one and only Dr. Gelman."

"Finally! Someone who knows what he's doing." Ulanova beamed. "Oh, thank you, Madeline. I'll repay you for this, I promise."

Madeline arched an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm sure you will."


	19. Chapter 19

Paul strode into Munitions, hands shoved into the pockets of his thick wool jacket. At first, Walter didn't seem to notice Paul's approach; he hunched over a narrow worktable, muttering to himself as he connected a mass of hair-thin wires to each other. But as Paul reached the table, Walter straightened up and grinned.

"Well, if it isn't Section's number one dispatcher of bad guys. I suppose you're here for your weapon, huh?"

"That might help, yes," Paul remarked dryly. "Killing them with my bare hands can be fun, but it's a little time-consuming."

Walter strolled over to a cabinet, withdrew a pistol and belt, and plunked them heavily onto the table.

"Here you go, then. We wouldn't want you to have too much fun out there. It's against the rules, you know."

Grunting in thanks, Paul strapped on the belt and reached to pick up the pistol. He was about to holster it when he stopped and frowned. He lifted the gun and scrutinized it, turning and aiming it in several directions.

It looked all right: a standard P220, normal grip, nothing custom. He'd used that model for years, depended on it, to the point where it functioned like an organic extension of his own body, as if it were made of nerves and flesh instead of metal and screws. This one, however, felt wrong somehow. Unnatural. Like a stranger, instead of his best friend.

"What did you do to this?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The weight's off."

"Oh. That." An embarrassed look passed across Walter's face. "New ammo. It's a little lighter."

"That's going to throw off my aim."

Walter lifted his shoulders in a weak shrug. "You'll get used to it."

Something about Walter's attitude -- a blasé indifference that seemed more forced than genuine -- inflamed Paul's annoyance into full-fledged anger. Walter knew full well what a problem such a change could cause, if not phased in properly. If he thought he could get away with playing dumb, he was insulting Paul's intelligence.

Paul leaned forward across the table, his face so close to Walter's he could feel the other man's breath against his skin. "This isn't the time to be screwing with my gear, Walter," he growled. "We're undermanned as it is. I don't want to have to worry about getting my shots off fast enough, too." He glared until Walter looked away, red-faced. "Now, give me some of the old clips. I know you've still got some around."

Walter tightened his expression and shook his head. "No can do, amigo. Adrian's orders. Budget cuts, or something."

Adrian's orders? Amazing. Was there anything left she wasn't interfering with?

"So Adrian's choosing our ammunition now? When was the last time she even touched a gun?" Unable to suppress a sneer of disdain, he scoffed, "She probably thinks dum-dum bullets are manufactured by high-school dropouts."

Walter wrinkled his face and glanced around nervously. "You might want to lower your voice a little when you start talking like that."

Paul snorted. "I hope she's listening. She needs to know there are some things better left to experts. Why, that old--"

Walter seized Paul by the arm and pulled him forward. Leaning in toward Paul's ear, he whispered, "Look, I can't help you with the ammo. But I slipped a few extra toys into the van for you. Comprende?"

Startled, Paul nodded. He should have known. Walter was no fool, after all, despite the simpleminded appearance created by that idiotic counterculture act he insisted on putting on. The man couldn't have survived longer than anyone else in Section merely by luck. No one's luck was _that_ good.

Anyway, some extra toys? Interesting. He'd have to remember to pay Walter back for the favor. Come to think of it, he owed the man several. Well, he'd get around to taking care of that one of these days.

Walter released his grip on Paul's arm.

Paul straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay," he said, deliberately loudly, "I still don't like it, but I'll deal with it."

Walter winked. "Atta boy."

As Paul finally holstered his pistol and turned to leave, Walter returned to his work. Paul paused, staring at the tangled mess of wires that Walter started untwisting.

"What the hell _is_ that?"

"This?" Walter chuckled. "It's part of that project Madeline's working on. You know, remote controlled brains or some nutty thing like that."

Some nutty thing like that. Walter always had the most eloquent way of expressing his opinion.

"So does it work?"

"Damned if I know. My job is to make sure this component responds to the radio signals properly. The rest of it's not my problem."

Easy for Walter to say. Recruiting the scientist to do the work in-house hadn't been his idea. Nor would it be his failure if things went wrong. That, however, was not a thought Paul wanted to dwell upon.

"Speaking of which," Paul said, "have you seen Madeline lately?"

"Sure. We meet every so often to coordinate the work on this thing."

"How is she?"

Walter frowned, looking confused. "How do you mean?"

Paul felt his face warm in a sudden flush. He ignored it. "She's been so busy with that project lately, I never see her. She's not even doing my profiles anymore. So, I was just wondering whether...uh...how she was doing, that's all."

The confusion in Walter's expression gave way to sympathy. He smiled cheerfully. "She seems fine. Same as ever, anyway. It's hard to tell with her, you know?"

Paul nodded to conceal his disappointment. Walter couldn't tell him what he really wanted to know, even if he could somehow bring himself to ask the real questions: Had she asked about him? Did she miss working together as much as he did? Did she miss him the way he did her?

Unable to voice these thoughts, he channeled his frustration toward another target.

"Adrian has Ottmar doing the profiling for my missions," he complained. "He's useless. His profiles need to be completely rewritten, but I don't have the time to fix them all."

"Ottmar's new. He'll get better."

"I don't have time for him to get better," he snapped. "Madeline knows my strengths and my weaknesses. She knows how to write profiles that work for my teams. But instead, I've got an incompetent profiler, my team's been cut in half, and now I don't even have decent equipment. How the hell am I supposed to do my job?" He stopped, noticing that he had clenched his fists, and tried to calm himself. "Next thing you know, Adrian will start reassigning the handful of team members I have left. If that happens, I might as well just shoot myself in the head and get it over with."

"Look here," said Walter, his tone stern, like a chastising uncle, "I know you had things set up the way you like them. But life goes on, and things change. You've just got to roll with it."

Oh, lovely. Walter's homespun wisdom. Just what he was in the mood to hear.

"I'm all in favor of change, Walter," he said irritably. "My problem is with people who don't know the difference between good change and bad."

Walter laughed. "Well, when someone makes you God, you can arrange the universe any way you want. Until then, you'll just have to deal with the bullshit like us lesser mortals."

Feeling his mood lighten with Walter's jibe, Paul cracked a smirk. "Oh, when I get to be God, I'll do just that. Trust me."

***

With a slow, steady blip, the red dot blinked along the blue grid on Jules's computer screen. The dot marked the progress of a caravan of automobiles through a city halfway across the world; it wove along tangled, nighttime streets, heading steadily closer to a hidden roadblock -- and a Section ambush.

Adrian leaned in, looking over Jules's shoulder. The rhythmic blinking matched the beat of her heart; her mouth grew uncomfortably dry as she contemplated what was about to take place.

Finally. Her opening blow against Phillip. One designed to smash the chains that bound the Sections to Center, that kept her organization in financial thrall to a man who would turn it into his plaything. Independence, autonomy, freedom to fight evildoers as she saw fit, without Phillip's intolerable meddling: all now within her grasp.

Visual intel had confirmed that the third car in the caravan carried none other than Cyrus Norasty, co-founder of Red Cell. It was the perfect opportunity to intercept a key player in the fastest-growing terrorist movement of the day; hence, it was the perfect mission to sacrifice to bring her plight to the attention of the Council. The original profile had called for overwhelming Norasty's escort with superior numbers and firepower; unaltered, that profile almost certainly would have succeeded. But by eliminating aerial support and reducing the size of the team due to "budgetary constraints," Adrian had ensured that Norasty would escape -- and that she could pin the blame on Phillip and his stinginess.

Once upon a time, back when her youthful idealism blinded her to the more distasteful aspects of real life, she would have been appalled to think that she would deliberately sabotage a mission. That she would let a monster go free when she had the power to stop him. Then again, in those days she had also believed that everyone who claimed to be fighting terrorism was on the same side. Phillip's controlling behavior had shattered that foolish illusion.

Sometimes the worst enemy was not the opposition, but one's allies.

As the dot neared the target zone, she placed her hand on Jules's shoulder. He tensed at her touch, and she glanced down at him briefly. She disliked him, and he clearly knew it: he was rude, arrogant, and far too Gallic for her tastes. Nevertheless, his ego demanded that he prove himself whenever given a challenge, and she had always found that useful. So long as he was kept in check.

Alas, they all needed to be kept in check. Power-hungry colleagues, unruly subordinates -- it was all rather tiring.

So very, very tiring.

"Target on final approach," Jules murmured into his headset. "Everybody on their marks."

Blinking to clear her mind, Adrian took a seat beside Jules and donned her own headset. The radio burst into life as the team members confirmed their readiness. Then she watched, concentrating to maintain an outward calm, as the blip reached the blockade.

She winced as the high-pitched sound of squealing tires filled her ears, followed by rapid blasts of gunfire. After several minutes passed without the rate of firing slowing down, she frowned in concern.

The skirmish should have been brief. Norasty, safe in his bulletproof limousine, ought to have escaped almost immediately -- the undermanned team was simply too small to box him in. Why, then, did it sound like a full-fledged firefight had broken out?

A firefight would be a disaster. With Section's team outnumbered, a genuine gun battle would essentially guarantee the loss of all personnel. But this team was not expendable: she had carefully chosen the best available operatives, with nearly perfect records, in order to convince the Council of the sincerity of the retrieval attempt. _I used my best people_, she planned to tell them. _But without adequate resources, even they can't succeed. That's why the Sections must have autonomy._

She listened in silence, stonyfaced, ignoring the anxious glances Jules flicked her way as team members started dying. Sergio. Yong-jun. Ingrid. Patrick. Within fifteen minutes, half the team gone.

"The target is fighting his way out," shouted Paul, barely audible over the deafening noise. "We can't hold him much longer."

"Abort," she commanded. "Save the rest of the team."

After a brief burst of static, Paul's voice sounded again. "If we detonate, we can take him out. There aren't any collaterals in the vicinity."

Adrian sat forward abruptly. "Detonate what?"

"There's C4 and a timer in the van. We'd have just enough of a window to get the team clear."

What in God's name were they doing with explosives? She hadn't authorized any such thing. In fact, she had gone to great lengths to ensure they were inadequately outfitted. Her eyes darted toward the entrance to Munitions. Walter. That longhaired fool.

"Request denied," she said. "Abort the mission. I want Norasty alive, not dead."

"You didn't provide us with enough personnel to retrieve him alive. But we can take him out, and we should. Otherwise this entire mission will have been an exercise in futility."

If she could have reached through the computer monitor and throttled Paul, she would have. His obstinacy would ruin everything. What made it worse was that, strictly speaking, he was right. By any rational analysis, they should take Norasty out while they had the chance. Paul couldn't be expected to know that higher stakes were involved.

"You heard my order," she said grimly. "Abort."

There were several moments of silence, broken only by the steady sound of gunfire. "You know what, Adrian?" he finally replied, the cold disdain in his voice withering even over the noise of the transmitter. "You're an idiot. You must have slept with someone to get your job, because you don't know the first thing about counter-terrorism."

She froze, as if she had been slapped, her mouth dropping open but no words forming. In the periphery of her gaze, she noticed Jules and several other operatives turn and gape; she did her best to ignore them, although she felt her face flush.

She breathed deeply in an effort to maintain her composure, unable to ascertain whether she was outraged or proud. His blatant show of disrespect was intolerable, unacceptable -- and yet, most aggravating of all, admirable. Unlike the other operatives -- a craven, cowardly lot, all of them -- he had the courage to speak his mind and face the consequences. This was the side of his character she had admired so much, the side that had led her to recruit him in the first place. Unfortunately, it wasn't his only side, as she had discovered the hard way: the courage was one face; the other was cruelty.

Finally, she found her voice. "You can critique my command when you return to Section. I gave you an order, and I expect you to comply."

"You heard her," he called to his remaining team members. "Abort. We lost half the team for nothing."

As the sound of gunfire tapered off, Adrian focused her attention back on that blinking red dot on the monitor. Once again, it began to move, pulling past the roadblock, and then disappearing off the edge of the screen.

Norasty had escaped. But would it be enough?

***

Madeline fingered the sheets of paper as she turned the pages of the report, reviewing the tables of data for what felt like the hundredth time. Page after page of meticulously documented figures, graphs and diagrams: she stared at them intensely, as if their contents might miraculously change if she checked just once more. But stubbornly, obstinately -- almost insultingly -- they remained the same.

What the figures told her was precisely what she didn't want to know. The mind-control program -- the one Adrian had charged her with overseeing -- was a failure. The device Section's research team had copied from Red Cell did work, to a degree: it was possible to implant it in a subject and generate emotions with a surprising level of finesse. They had even significantly improved upon the rather crude design, eliminating the erratic mood swings they had observed in the Red Cell captive. However, it was not possible to control enemy agents implanted with the device by their own organizations, which was what Adrian had wanted. The variables were just too numerous, the technology insufficiently advanced.

There was no choice, then, but to shut the project down.

Unwilling to accept that conclusion, she was about to turn back to the first page yet again when she heard a tapping sound. She glanced up to see one of the lab workers at the door; he peered through owl-like glasses into the office, not quite daring to cross the threshold, his manner reminiscent of a nervous supplicant approaching royalty.

"Madeline?"

"What is it?" She bit back on the urge to be curt, instead making an extra effort to sound courteous, even warm. Maintaining an even temper reinforced one's authority with subordinates: it was a practice she had observed Adrian employ to great effect and had decided to adopt herself.

There were a lot of things to be learned from Adrian, as much as she hated to admit it.

"Would you mind if we went home for the evening?" He added, as if in apology, "It's past eight already."

"Not at all." She smiled politely. "Good night."

His round face filled with a look of relief. "Thank you. See you tomorrow."

When he withdrew, she looked back down at the report, but then she pushed it away in exasperation. The strength of her disappointment surprised her. After all, she hadn't wanted to pursue the research in the first place -- had been certain it was utterly futile -- but now, the prospect of giving up filled her with anger and dismay.

Terminating the project would be an absurd and illogical waste. She had built up a stellar team of scientists and collected a wealth of intriguing data. While they couldn't achieve Adrian's specific objective, they had gained substantial, practical knowledge of the workings of the human brain. Knowledge that could be applied to improving the performance of Section's operatives, if only Adrian were less squeamish about using it internally.

As much as she disliked waste, however, that couldn't possibly explain the depth of her anger. There was something else, something she was almost ashamed to admit to herself. Something personal.

Within the R&amp;D facilities, within the neglected and unglamorous support departments, she had created a real place for herself. A place free from Adrian's overbearing presence, where she had influence and power in her own right, where she was treated with respect and even deference. Where, for the first time in her life, she had real control over something and felt the confidence that came with it.

If the project terminated, all that might be lost.

She rose to her feet, a burning feeling of resentment tightening her muscles. She walked to the doorway, where she came to a halt, hands clasped; there, she stood for several moments and surveyed the lab outside. White-coated operatives moved about purposefully: cleaning their work areas, gathering their belongings, preparing to leave. Their movements were quick and orderly, a reflection of the operation of the lab itself.

When she arrived, several months before, the research facilities had been a haphazard collection of independent fiefdoms, their productivity subject to the ever-changing whims of the scientific prima donnas ensconced therein. Now, thanks to a judicious application of charm, threats, rewards and even blackmail, she had transformed them into a functional, efficient -- and obedient -- unit. She had transformed Containment and Interrogation in much the same way when she first came to Section One: streamlining practices, disciplining and weeding out personnel, imposing order and rationality. These were tasks in which Adrian had failed, and she had succeeded. Where she knew what was right, and Adrian didn't.

_I'm good at this. Very good._

And wasn't it Adrian herself who said she should find what she did well and pursue it?

She clasped her hands a little more tightly. She couldn't allow herself to continue thinking along those lines. Other, weaker people succumbed to that kind of self-interested temptation. She had to push herself beyond that. She was a soldier, a cadre, a public servant who had proven her devotion to the cause by costly, painful sacrifice. Her reluctance to terminate the project had nothing to do with personal ambition, and everything to do with a desire to complete her assignment successfully if it were at all possible. If she could find a way to save the program, she would be fulfilling her duty; that was all. If she couldn't, then she would face that fact, too.

Perhaps the report had omitted something. If she could review the original test data, instead of the summaries contained in the report, perhaps she could be more creative than the cautious technicians who wrote it. However, with Ulanova having departed for the evening, such a review would have to wait until the following day.

There was one avenue she might not have to wait to pursue, she thought, straightening her shoulders and drawing in a long breath of realization. Walter. He would have notes documenting his tests of the device, and he was rarely gone before late evening. If she could catch him before he left for the night, she could borrow his original notes and study them at home.

Without bothering to switch off the light in her office, she turned and began to make her way toward the elevator.

There had to be a way. And if there were, she would find it.


	20. Chapter 20

It was only mid-evening, but Madeline found the main floor of Section virtually empty. Without its customary noise and energy, it felt cavernous and abandoned -- the air noticeably chilly, the lights uncomfortably harsh. Within the room's vast expanse only a lone figure sat working: Jules, typing at one of the workstations, his thin face pinched in a frown of concentration.

As Madeline walked along, Jules glanced up and nodded to her in brusque greeting. She smiled at him fleetingly, then she raised her eyes toward Adrian's office. Adrian was there, as always; her back to the windows, she studied a map stretched out in her hands.

Madeline wrenched her gaze back to the floor. Once, years before, Adrian had caught her looking. When their eyes met, Adrian had beamed as if in victory, as if the very act of looking up provided acknowledgement of Adrian's inherent authority and Madeline's subordination. Since then, she had struggled to appear indifferent to her commander's presence; still, the compulsion to glance toward the office was irresistible.

Increasing her pace, she turned the corner into Munitions -- and then stopped short.

Next to the worktable, Walter and Lisa clutched each other in a tight embrace. As Madeline froze in surprise, they hurriedly pulled apart. Walter cleared his throat self-consciously; Lisa straightened her jacket and looked down at the floor.

Walter…and Lisa? How unexpected. But then she examined the two of them more carefully. Walter looked worried, not amorous. As for Lisa, she was dressed in grimy mission gear, her face smeared with dirt and puffy with signs of recent crying.

The embrace had been that of a friend comforting another, not that of lovers.

Interesting.

Madeline took a few slow steps forward, taking in Lisa's demeanor. The other operative wasn't particularly moody as a rule. While she was naïve about many things -- charmingly so, in fact -- Madeline had never known her to be fazed by violence or death on missions. To the contrary, she always exhibited a blustering bravado, as if being tough in the field could provide a counterbalance to her painful social awkwardness. What, then, could have upset her like this?

"Do you need something, Madeline?" Walter stepped in front of Lisa, as if to shield her from Madeline's assessing gaze.

Madeline smiled. Walter's protectiveness was sweet, like that of a devoted guard dog. She could almost see the raised fur and bared teeth.

"Yes, I do," she answered, then added pointedly, "but I don't mean to interrupt anything…."

Half-hidden behind Walter, Lisa shook her head. "No, don't worry about it." Despite the unconcerned words, her voice was slightly tremulous.

"What do you want?" Walter sounded reluctant and somewhat impatient.

Madeline ignored his tone, keeping her own strenuously pleasant. "You took notes when you tested the L-18 device?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to see them."

"Okay. Stop by first thing in the morning and I'll have them for you."

He was already turning away when she spoke again.

"Morning won't be soon enough." When he stopped and looked back at her, she smiled apologetically. "Could you get them for me now, please?"

"Right this minute? It's kind of late."

"It's important."

He sighed loudly. "Fine. Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He threw a quick glance at Lisa and disappeared into a back corridor.

Madeline turned to Lisa, whose tearstained face belied her struggle to appear composed.

"Are you all right?"

Lisa hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, "Patrick's dead."

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Madeline reached out and touched Lisa's arm.

So that explained it. Occasionally, field operatives developed battlefield bonds, especially if they had served together for any length of time. Over the next few weeks, Lisa could be expected to exhibit the typical trajectory of anger and grief. It would require some adjustment to mission profiles. Inconvenient, but unavoidable.

Fresh tears began rolling down Lisa's face. "It was so stupid. He died over nothing."

"What happened?"

"Adrian sent us out to retrieve Cyrus Norasty. A simple vehicle intercept. If we'd had a normal complement on the team, it would have been a quick snatch and run. The sort of thing we can do in our sleep."

"But…?" Madeline prompted.

"But Adrian sent us in with half a team and no air support, that's what." Lisa's voice filled with bitterness and rage. "There weren't enough of us to pin in the Red Cell convoy. They just shot their way straight through our roadblock, and we lost five people." Her expression hardened. "I almost cheered when Paul told Adrian off."

A clammy sensation of apprehension settled across Madeline's skin. "When he _what_?" she asked numbly.

Lisa gave a short laugh. "He called her an idiot, if I remember the choice of words right. And told her she must have slept her way to the top. Comm went so quiet afterwards I thought they'd all fainted in shock."

The clamminess penetrated Madeline's body and thickened into churning nausea. She stared at Lisa's face as if from a vast distance. The mouth was still moving, but no sound registered; the features shifted, distorting into disembodied abstraction.

Paul had lost his mind. His position with Adrian was already precarious, and she would never tolerate such open disrespect. If he continued to provoke her, sooner or later he'd be punished. Maybe even cancelled.

That is, if he hadn't been already.

At the latter thought, Madeline felt a dizzying rush of fear, but then a sudden, dreadful calm. It wiped all else clean, leaving only an icy resolve, devoid of emotion, almost serene in its certitude.

If Adrian had harmed Paul in any way, Madeline would kill her. She would stroll upstairs to the office, smile and offer a polite greeting, and send a bullet slicing through the woman's aristocratic forehead. And then she would accept whatever fate befell her.

No fear. No hesitation. No regrets.

Slowly, Lisa's voice became audible again. It seemed disconcertingly loud, jarring.

"Honestly, I was amazed he didn't get dragged down to Containment when we got back, the way he talked to her. But she always has cut him more slack than anyone else."

Madeline frowned, consciousness of her surroundings drifting back as her mind grasped the significance of Lisa's words.

"What happened, then? Where is he?" She could hear her voice sharpen, but she couldn't help herself.

Lisa stepped back, as if retreating from Madeline's intensity. "They debriefed, and then I saw him leave. I think he went home."

"I see. Thank you, Lisa." Turning, she began to walk toward the exit.

"What about Walter's notes?" Lisa called out.

Madeline halted, so anxious to depart the room she was afraid she might combust. Clamping down on her reaction, she looked over her shoulder at Lisa.

"Walter's right. It is late. I'll stop by in the morning. Give him my apologies for troubling him this evening." She paused, noting Lisa's bewildered expression. Perhaps more condolences were in order before she rushed out so precipitously. "Patrick was an outstanding operative," she said in grave voice. "We'll all miss him."

Lisa gave her a long look, tinged with what might have been skepticism -- or even hurt. "Yeah. Maybe some of us more than others."

***

Lisa stood motionless, a feeling of disappointment and isolation rolling over her like a cold ocean wave.

She knew her reaction was foolish, even as the emotions swam in chilly circles in the pit of her stomach. She could hardly expect Madeline to be grief-stricken: in Section, people died as a matter of daily routine. Even savvy veterans like Patrick. So why should anyone lament the occurrence of something so mundane?

Still, the man had been on Madeline's very first team when she arrived at Section One. He had helped her learn the ropes as a field operative and had watched her back on countless missions since. He was dependable, considerate, and generous, his taciturn demeanor never fully disguising his fundamental decency. He _mattered_, and his death ought to matter, too. But all Madeline had to say in his memory was that he was an "outstanding operative."

An outstanding operative?

Pathetic. Even Adrian could have come up with something better than that.

"So where'd Madeline go?"

Startled, Lisa turned. Behind her, Walter stood clutching a notebook, his expression one of irritated mystification.

She blinked, her tension gradually easing. Thank God for Walter. Maybe people like Madeline didn't give a damn whether anyone lived or died, but at least someone did.

She shrugged. "She said it was too late after all, so she'll stop by in the morning."

Rolling his eyes, he tossed the notebook on a shelf. He made an exasperated face, but then his expression lightened.

"Hey, Lisa. Come back inside for a minute. I've got something for you."

Like a leprechaun promising a pot of gold, he beckoned and vanished into the storage area. Perplexed, she followed, peering into the narrow aisles to see where he had headed.

She found him waiting in front of a beaten-looking metal cabinet. The door squeaked as he yanked it open. He rummaged noisily inside for several moments and eventually pulled out a fat bottle of liquor. Grinning, he brandished it in the air; its tawny liquid gleamed as it sloshed to and fro.

"Kentucky's finest, bottled straight from the cask. I was going to save it for my birthday, but whaddya say we give it a little taste test tonight?"

She smiled sadly. What a sweet gesture. Too bad she wasn't in the mood.

"I'm sorry, Walter, but I think I just want to go home."

He grunted disapprovingly. "You and Patrick used to hoist a few after each mission, right?"

She felt herself stiffen. "Yeah. To celebrate making it through alive."

"Well, don't you think he'd want you to tonight?"

Her face twitched with the effort to control her expression. "He didn't make it through alive this time. What's to celebrate?"

"The fact that he's in a better place than us right now." He lowered himself unceremoniously to the floor. He sat back against the wall, bony legs sprawling, and patted the spot next to him invitingly. "Come on. Let's send off that big lug the way he deserves."

Reluctantly, she joined him on the floor. It was hard, cold and dusty, smelling of rancid grease and gunpowder. She stifled a sneeze and settled into a cross-legged position.

He twisted open the bottle and hoisted it into the air. "To Patrick." He took a sip and coughed explosively. "Damn fine stuff," he said.

He passed her the bottle. Taking it with both hands, she lifted it to her lips and took a swig. It tasted of brimstone and old leather, flaming all the way down her throat and into her stomach. Dribbles spilled from the corners of her mouth; gasping, she wiped them clean with her shirtsleeve.

"Good, huh?"

She couldn't yet speak; in response, she merely nodded. Painful might be a more accurate description -- but then again, it had cleared the tearful lump in her throat like an astringent. Maybe that was good, after all.

They passed the bottle back and forth in silence. She stared at the wall in front of her, allowing her body to warm.

_Patrick would have liked this. Too bad he's not here to try it._

She frowned, recognizing the illogic of her last thought. If Patrick were alive, Walter wouldn't have opened the bottle in the first place. Unless…unless that bullet had killed her and not him. It could have happened that way just as easily -- the fact that it struck him was completely random.

Going on missions was like playing Russian roulette. Each pull of the trigger brought the loaded chamber closer; each empty click was a countdown toward death. First, his death. Eventually, hers.

"It's going be me one of these days," she announced morosely. "No one lasts forever out there."

"Jeeze, Lisa, you've got to stop saying things like--"

"No!" She threw him a sharp look. "I'm not going to pretend that everything's going to be okay, because it's not. And if you keep pretending, you're just insulting me."

He looked startled, then chastened. He said nothing, but he draped an arm around her shoulders protectively. She leaned in toward him but felt no real comfort.

_It's not going to be okay. No miracles or happy endings._

"Can you promise me something?" she asked anxiously, her words spilling out before she could stop them.

Surprised concern filled his face. "Sure," he said gently. "What is it?"

This was going to be hard to explain. She'd better start from the beginning.

"I don't know if you remember, but when I first came here, I was pregnant. With twins, as it turned out."

"I remember that. They took them away afterwards."

"They did worse than that," she said, grimacing. "One of them was placed with an adoptive family. But they kept the other one here, for an experiment."

He shifted positions, looking vaguely uneasy. "Oh, yeah? How do you know?"

"Because I found him. They're raising him up on Level 16."

Abruptly, he removed his arm from her shoulders.

"Oh, man," he muttered.

"He's like a prisoner," she continued, letting the anger flow freely. "He barely ever goes outside, never interacts with anyone but a few teachers -- they're trying to turn him into some computer prodigy." She sat up straight, her anger surging into defiant pride. "But I've been helping him," she confided, her voice low but full of intensity.

His face paled. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated, suddenly uncertain in the face of his apparent nervousness. "I've kind of…uh…made some arrangements with people. The head teacher on Level 16, Jules. I do them favors, and they make sure I can get him some luxuries here and there. It's not much, but…."

She stopped, losing control of her voice. He stared at her with a look of raw horror.

Was it a mistake to tell him? No, surely he would understand. If anyone in Section would, it was Walter. Walter, of the five percent club, who was always there when she needed a joke or a shoulder to lean on. He was the only one she could trust with this. And God, this was so important. She was going to die, she was sure of it, and she needed his help.

After a moment's pause, she gathered her courage. "If anything happens to me, I want you to promise that you'll look out for him. You know, just small things. Make sure his life isn't completely miserable." She looked at him pleadingly. "Can you do that for me?"

He covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Jesus, Lisa," he groaned. Then he looked up, with a strange expression that she couldn't quite interpret. "It's karma, come back to bite me in the ass. Serves me right, I suppose, after what I did."

She looked at him, unsure what to say.

He sat quietly for a moment, then he took a swig from the bottle and made a bitter face.

"I'm the one who picked him, you know."

"What?"

"Seymour. I picked him to stay."

She repeated his words in her mind -- once, twice, three times. It didn't make sense. He couldn't have meant what it sounded like. That wasn't possible. But then how did he know it was Seymour who stayed in Section? She hadn't mentioned any names.

"What do you mean?" she asked warily.

He shook his head. "I don't know why they picked me to choose. I mean, what do I know about that kind of thing? Maybe Adrian was testing me. Who knows?"

That wasn't an answer to her question.

"What did you do, Walter?" She spoke through gritted teeth.

He swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Well, one day one of the doctors took me in to see them, and said, pick one. I asked, how? And he said, just pick one. So, I did." His expression grew defensive. "I didn't have any choice, you know?"

Somehow, he had managed to choose between two helpless infants. He had decided, when she couldn't. She didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.

"How did you pick?"

He looked away. "I flipped a coin."

She stared at him for a moment, horrified. Then she started to laugh -- a bitter, disgusted laugh.

He flipped a coin. How sick. How horrible. And how completely Section.

Her laughter faded. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" Her voice was soft, but the question was an accusation.

"What good would it have done for you to know?"

What good would it have done? It would have showed he cared enough about her to be honest. It would have showed that she wasn't alone.

She rose to her feet unsteadily. "You're right," she said, looking down at him like a stranger. "It wouldn't have done any good at all."

***

As twilight faded, the light from the lamp grew stark. Harsh amidst the strengthening darkness, it cast sharp lines across the living room carpet and threw misshapen shadows against the walls. The contrast hurt Paul's eyes, but he ignored it; staring ahead, he roamed from one end of the room to the other, a restless nomad in a vain search for refuge.

Home should have been that refuge. It should have been a source of comfort and safety. Yet his apartment seemed as confining as a solitary cell, its familiar outlines more claustrophobic than welcoming.

He might as well have stayed in Section. In fact, he had expected to be detained there; with a perverse sense of pride, he had even welcomed the prospect. But when he returned from the mission and presented himself to Adrian, offering to debrief, she looked at him with a blank expression and shook her head. Then she simply turned away, as if he didn't exist.

No humiliating dressing-down before the other operatives. No scathing private rebuke. No punishment or repercussions of any kind. Nothing.

The lack of reaction was disorienting. Over the years, he had seen Adrian lose her temper at operatives many times: her icy viciousness was legendary within Section, but something he had learned to face without fear. In its absence, he found his courage ebbing, replaced by worry.

By the time he arrived home, however, the worry had given way to rage. It wrapped around his chest like a python, tightening relentlessly until he could barely breathe. Paralyzed, he stood motionless in the center of his living room -- hands clenched, muscles tensed, heart racing. The perfect military order of the surroundings was suffocating: he wanted to sweep the books from the shelves, smash the lamp against the wall, hurl the ashtray through the television screen. Destroy everything within reach.

Instead, he paced.

Hours later, he was still pacing, tracing a line back and forth across the floor, as if the sheer repetition might grind down his seething energy into something more controllable. Gradually, the ability to reason began to return to him. But his thoughts circled helplessly around the events of that afternoon, trapped in a sickening orbit around the mission. The mission -- and his failure.

No. Not his failure. Adrian's failure.

They had one of Red Cell's founders within their sights, and Adrian had let him live. Unbelievable. What was she thinking? Killing Norasty might not have stopped any of their operations, but that wasn't the point. It would have been a blow to morale, a symbolic victory against an organization that traded in such gestures.

By allowing him to escape, Adrian ceded the upper hand to Red Cell. Norasty himself would gain cult status: a super-terrorist, untouchable, too good for Section to catch. His enhanced reputation would breed more support, more members, more donations -- and more attacks.

If Adrian couldn't see that, then Section had already lost the war. Every mission they launched would be an exercise in futility; every death in the field an utter waste. He had witnessed that kind of senselessness once before in Vietnam and had ascribed it to civilian incompetence. There, it was easy to lay the blame on weak-willed politicians and ill-informed public opinion. He had thought that Section -- free of such hindrances -- would be different.

But if it wasn't any different, then what was the point?

There was no answer to that question. Or at least no answer he could bring himself to face.

Sharp raps at the door broke into his thoughts. He flinched in surprise, not quite believing what he had heard. The knocks came in a quick but distinct pattern: a code he had memorized, but hadn't heard in years -- in fact, hadn't expected to hear ever again. Cautiously, nearly certain he had imagined it, he approached the door and peered through the peephole.

It wasn't his imagination. Madeline stood in the hallway, hands clasped together, with a knowing expression that made him feel as if she could see right through the door.

Madeline. There, at his home, for the first time in over two years. There was an instant of shock, then a wave of gratitude. She had heard what happened and had come to console him. She would understand his frustration. Would think the way he did. Would know he was right.

He opened the door in relief. For several moments, she did nothing but stare back at him, her gaze cool, assessing.

"You're lucky," she announced. Her voice was mellifluous but laced with sarcasm, like a bite of bittersweet chocolate.

Taken aback, he stiffened. "Lucky I lost half my team? Or lucky we lost the target?"

"Lucky that you're still here to be angry about it," she replied, arching an eyebrow in a subtle motion of rebuke. "Somewhat surprising after your outburst."

He laughed in disappointment and disgust. "You came all the way here to lecture me? Isn't that a treat."

Her expression hardened. "I came here to make you see some sense," she said, her voice dropping in anger.

How dare she judge him? Off in her safe little research domain, showered with privileges by a strangely doting Adrian, she knew nothing of what he had been going through the past few months. She hadn't seen the deaths, or the cutbacks, or the missions that led nowhere. She hadn't felt the sting of having her opinion ignored or dismissed when it was once held so highly. She hadn't lost anything -- in fact, she seemed only to have gained what he once had.

That thought made her presence unbearable.

He grimaced. "Spare me, Madeline. I don't need to hear it. Especially not from you."

He started to close the door, but she grabbed his forearm to stop him, her fingers digging into his skin through his shirt.

"Paul, listen to me. Please."

He searched her eyes. There was an intensity in her gaze that hinted at something unidentifiable: worry, fear, maybe even desperation. It made him hesitate, even when his fingers itched to slam the door in her face.

He glanced back into his apartment. "Not here," he mouthed silently.

She nodded and released her grip on his arm.

He stepped into the hallway, allowing the door to fall closed behind him. Seizing her elbow, he marched her toward the stairs; he squeezed hard enough to hurt her -- probably hard enough to bruise -- but she didn't flinch, and she said nothing.

He kicked open the stairwell door and pulled her inside. The door slammed shut, echoing in the emptiness. He turned to face her and folded his arms across his chest.

"You've got something to say to me? Go ahead."

She took a sharp breath with what looked like fleeting nervousness, but then her expression quickly reverted to its usual calm ambiguity.

"Nothing can be gained from needless provocation of Adrian," she said smoothly, almost patronizingly. "Stop before it goes any farther."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're inviting cancellation," she replied, a trace of exasperation breaking through the smoothness.

Of course. That was the direction he was headed in. To be honest, he had been prodding Adrian toward that end for quite a long time. Until this incident, it had been unconscious. Now, however, he had openly embraced the inevitable: if there was no place in Section for his ideas, then there was no place for him, either.

He sighed, suddenly drained of energy. "What difference does it make?"

Her face whitened, her dark eyes growing unnaturally large against the pallor of her skin. Then her jaw tightened and she gave him a violent shove against his chest. Caught by surprise, he stumbled back against the wall, the air expelling from his lungs in a painful gasp.

"Don't you dare say that," she said in a voice as cold as death. "Don't even think it."

The force of the collision with the wall set his anger exploding back into being.

"Why?" he demanded. "What do you care?"

He took several steps forward, daring her to reach for him again. But this time she remained motionless, doing nothing even as he came provocatively close.

He waited.

"Because Section needs you too much," she finally answered.

Not good enough. He shook his head.

"Section needs me." He gave a curt laugh. "How heartwarming. Somehow, I was hoping you'd give me a better reason."

She stared back at him. Slowly, her eyes filled with emotion: pain, defiance, and resentment, swirling together like a thundercloud.

"_I_ need you," she said.

She needed him. Those were the words he had wanted her to utter, and yet hearing them was strangely unsatisfying. They were too easy, too ambiguous: an evasion, wrapped in a confession.

"Need me, how?"

She said nothing. Her eyes seemed to hold an answer, but he couldn't decipher it.

"Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?"

She remained silent, her gaze unblinking.

For a moment, he wanted to snatch her by the throat and choke an answer out of her. To squeeze until he hurt her, until she cried out, until she said something. Except that even then she wouldn't. She wouldn't give in, and he couldn't make her. He couldn't make her do anything. He had no more control over her than he did over Section. Or over his own life.

Once, he'd had everything. A woman who shared herself with him, and a future with meaning and promise. Then it had all slipped away, vanishing so gradually he hadn't known how to stop it.

But wishing for the past wouldn't bring it back. The question was: was there anything left?

Slowly, he reached out and touched her face. He moved almost automatically, more on instinct than with any conscious intent. He ran his fingers across her cheek, threaded them though her hair, traced them along her lips. Her skin was soft and smoother than he remembered; her cheek and jawbones felt so delicate he was afraid he might crush them. Afraid that maybe he wanted to.

She placed a hand against his cheek; disconcerted, he grasped and removed it. She slid both hands along his chest and shoulders; again, he pulled them away, this time more forcefully.

"Don't," he said sharply.

He couldn't control Section. He couldn't control her feelings. But he would control this -- it would be at his pace, and on his terms.

A look of confusion filled her face, but she stopped.

He shifted his hands from her face to her body. His palms followed the curve of her waist to her hips, absorbing her heat through the thin fabric, then slid down the length of her thighs. He slipped his hands underneath her skirt; there, nails dug into warm flesh, and fingers sought out yielding moistness.

She inhaled audibly, and he remembered that she'd said she needed him. Maybe not the way he wanted, but that didn't matter. Now, the fact that she needed him at all -- and acknowledged that need, at whatever level it existed -- would have to be enough.

He would _make_ it enough.

With a sudden surge of energy, he forced her backwards, pinning her against the door. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, raised her skirt. Then he lifted her up and pressed against her so hard she gasped.

Anger transformed into desire; hopelessness gave way to determination. He moved swiftly, because he wanted to. He was rough, because it suited him. He took possession, because it was his right.

As he drove himself into her, gritting his teeth with the effort, she finally relaxed, utterly passive, and allowed him to do as he wanted. To take the lead, to draw what he needed from her.

Her gaze locked with his, and he knew she understood. Understood -- and accepted.

She accepted. When the realization struck him, his fury vanished.

He slowed his movement, the violence replaced with tenderness, and began to kiss a path along her neck. As he breathed in her scent, her hair fell like a silk curtain around his face, and he felt his mind clear, the haze of anger that had imprisoned him all night gradually lifting. Her acquiescence calmed him, helped him see alternatives.

He wasn't alone after all. He wasn't powerless. And while the past was irretrievable, he could still create a future.

***

With a sharp grunt, Paul dug his fingers into the back of Madeline's thighs, then abruptly ceased his movement. Standing motionless, he clutched her hard, pressing deep into muscle until she clenched her teeth in pain. His chest rose and fell heavily against hers; she could feel his heart pounding as his breath rasped in her ear.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He smelled of the mission: of perspiration, blood, grime and death. Pulling him closer, she breathed him in. The scent soothed her; it was deep and rich with spent violence, like the soreness from where he had bruised her and the inner ache from the roughness of their coupling. She could give herself to it, let it overwhelm her senses. Let it block out everything else. Everything but an unsettling question.

Why had she come to him?

She knew better, and yet she hadn't been able to help herself. She had reacted on instinct, driven by anger, worry -- and need. Most of all, need. Almost beyond reason.

_Do you need me for yourself, or just for Section?_

He had asked, but she hadn't answered. She couldn't answer. His question assumed there was a distinction. She wasn't certain there was.

She felt him pull away and opened her eyes. He avoided her gaze and began to fasten his clothing, tucking in his shirt, zipping his pants, buckling his belt. Suddenly self-conscious, she did the same, continuing to brush and smooth the fabric long after any wrinkles or flecks of dirt had disappeared.

Eventually, the silence grew awkward, and there was nothing to do but look at each other.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she replied.

Equilibrium had returned, reassuring and rational. She drew a slow breath, finally taking in her surroundings. The light in the stairwell flickered with a soft buzz of electricity; the air was stale and smelled of mildewed carpet. Noise from the floors above and below seeped in faintly: disembodied voices, distant music, a clatter of dishes and running water.

She looked back at Paul. He stood a few feet away, hands thrust into his pockets, regarding her pensively.

"What happened today?" she asked.

A look of surprise filled his face. "I thought you knew."

"I heard some people died, and you confronted Adrian. That's all."

For an instant, his jaw tensed, the bone jutting out and then rapidly retreating. "We had him," he said sourly. "And she made us let him go." He shook his head in a gesture of disgust. "She doesn't get it. Not anymore. She's holding us back."

_She's holding us back._ The remark stung her into awareness, like a sudden pinprick. _He sees it, too._

"It's not just the missions," she said, keeping her voice steady even as her heart began to lurch. "It's the same in the labs."

"How so?" He smiled bitterly. "I thought she'd given you the keys to the place."

She gave a short laugh. "If only." The frustrations of earlier in the day flooded back. "We have technology, and we're not using it to its full potential. Because of her scruples."

She stifled a grimace, but she couldn't keep the distaste from her voice. Scruples, from a woman who thought nothing of enslaving thousands of people, or of executing those who failed to meet her arbitrary standards. The hypocrisy of it was sickening.

His gaze sharpened, his eyes transforming into circles of glittering blue ice. Once again, she could feel the anger emanating from him; it was palpable, like a cloud that darkened and chilled the air around him. But unlike before, when his rage seemed directed at everyone and everything, this time it was focused, concentrated on a single subject of odium. Instead of pushing her away, it drew her in; it surrounded her, filled her, and made her its own.

"The problem with Adrian," he said, his voice hoarse with derision, "is that she's a spy, not a soldier. She understands intelligence, but she doesn't know how to fight a war."

"And what Section faces now is a war," she said, nodding in agreement. "Against a new kind of enemy."

"You can't just outwit them. You have to obliterate them. It's not a Cold War; it's scorched earth. And Adrian doesn't have the stomach for it."

"No. But we do."

They held a look. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he weren't quite sure how she would react. Then he straightened his shoulders resolutely. "That's why she needs to be removed from the equation." He looked her steadily in the eye. A challenge, but also a plea.

She blinked. "That would be for the best." She smiled, trying to control her relief. No, more than relief. Joy. "For Section," she amended hastily, disturbed by the force of her emotion.

_Not for me. Not for us. For Section._

"For everyone," he said.


	21. Chapter 21

Shivering, Lisa tugged her jacket closer around her. The sun had finally risen, but the air was still chilly; as she blew on her hands to warm them, her breath rose in faint white puffs. Everything was suffused in the light of early morning -- bright yet somehow washed out, casting long, sharp shadows along the pavement.

The alley where she waited smelled like spoiled vinegar. Blending with the smell of fresh bread from the bakery a few doors down, the odor made her empty stomach congeal into a heavy mass of nausea. But it wasn't just the smells, or the hunger, or even the lack of sleep that made her feel lightheaded. Nor was it the aftereffects of Walter's liquor from the night before. Rather, it was anger, anxiety, desperation, despair -- all of them convulsing through her like epileptic spasms. They wouldn't stop, wouldn't subside, wouldn't leave her alone.

Eventually, they had driven her here. Where she watched and paced until dawn, struggling to keep her impatience from erupting out of control.

Finally, her wait was rewarded. When she saw the blonde woman pass by along the sidewalk, she sprang out of the alley like a ravenous animal.

"Jesus," gasped Mireille. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk." Lisa pointed toward the alley, her hand trembling with intensity.

A look of fear flashed across Mireille's face, as if she were contemplating running away. After a few moments' hesitation, she walked into the alley. Lisa followed a step behind, heart thudding.

Mireille grimaced. "For God's sake, did you stake me out all night?"

Lisa ignored the question. She took a step forward. "I want to know what this whole thing is about," she demanded.

"What 'thing'?"

"This experiment you're in charge of. I want to know everything. How it started, what the goal is, where it's going. _Everything_."

Mireille rolled her eyes and sighed. "Look, I don't know as much as you think"

"Don't play stupid!" Lisa smacked her fist against the wall next to Mireille's head. Mireille flinched. "You have access to records. You see those kids every day. Are they all twins? Who are their parents? What are they being trained to do? Why? And what happens if they fail their training?"

"You're better off not knowing. Trust me."

"You know, I'm really sick of people deciding what they think is good for me," Lisa snarled. Mireille, Walter -- what gave them the right? She grasped Mireille's shoulder and dug her fingers in hard. "You're going to tell me everything you know -- and then whatever you don't know, you're going to help me find out."

"That's crazy," Mireille said. "If I start prying into things that are none of my business, I could get cancelled." She looked at Lisa coldly. "And so could you. Because you'd better believe I'm not protecting you if I get caught."

Lisa released her grip on Mireille's shoulder and laughed. It hurt to laugh -- it felt like her lungs were exploding -- but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"You don't get it, do you?" she said when the laughter subsided. "I'm not afraid anymore." She pointed to a stain on her jacket. "See that? That's from where my best friend's brains were blown out yesterday."

Mireille's blue eyes widened.

"It could have been me, just as easily," said Lisa. "And it _will_ be me, sooner or later. That's just the way it is for field ops. It made me realize I've got absolutely _nothing_ to lose."

Realization dawned on Mireille's face. She shook her head. "I can't do this," she whispered.

Lisa pulled out her gun and held it to Mireille's temple. This time, her hand didn't tremble.

"You _will_ do this. Because you're still afraid to die, and I'm willing to kill you."

Mireille started to cry. Once, Lisa would have felt sorry for her. Now, she didn't care.

"Do we understand each other?"

Mireille nodded, tears rolling down her face.

Lisa holstered her gun. "Good. Then we've got some research to get started."

***

Paul took a long drag from his cigarette, followed by a slurp of coffee. The bitter taste filled his mouth; he savored it and allowed the nicotine-caffeine boost to suffuse his body. He set his cup on the saucer, flicked some ash into the ashtray, and settled back contentedly in his chair.

Curious, he cast his gaze at his surroundings. It amazed him how many people appeared to have so much leisure time in the middle of the afternoon: the café tables were full, the sidewalks bustling with pedestrians bearing shopping bags, the streets congested with honking cars. Didn't these people have to earn a living? Why, he couldn't even remember the last time he had simply sat around and done nothing all day. On some level, the idea actually offended him. Frittering time was for the soft, the lazy, and the spoiled: for students, the idle rich, pampered housewives or, God forbid, dilettante artists.

Like the two men at the table next to him, for example. Wiry-thin and wearing the requisite all-black, they sat arguing incessantly about movies -- throwing around phrases like "unifying tropes" and "the death of the auteur." They'd been at it for at least an hour -- bumming cigarettes from Paul in between unintelligible diatribes at each other -- and showed no signs of recognizing the utter triviality of their entire conversation. He'd been tempted, for a few moments, to interrupt and tell them they didn't know shit about the death of anything, that he'd seen people's heads blown off so that they could keep enjoying their intellectual masturbation sessions. But he bit his tongue and contented himself with occasional sneers in their direction when they raised a particularly ridiculous point.

And yet, while he should have felt bored and frustrated wasting a perfectly good workday eavesdropping on such useless people, he found that he was enjoying himself. The idea of genuine time off had become an almost alien concept; he had downtime scheduled after every mission, of course, but he always went back to Section anyway -- to use the gym, do some target practice, catch up on analysis, or a myriad of other tasks. This time, however, he had decided it was wisest to lay low -- to let Adrian cool down before he went back and groveled in apology.

Groveled. The thought made him smile. He wasn't sure if Adrian would buy the contrite act he planned to put on -- it couldn't be too abject, after all, or it would look suspicious. It would have to be subtle, and grudging enough to seem sincere. And then he'd have to play Nice Schoolboy for the foreseeable future. He knew he probably wouldn't win his way back into her favor -- it was far too late for that -- but he was optimistic he could at least avoid any serious wrath.

He'd been so stupid, challenging her with no goal or strategy -- challenging her simply for the sake of being right. He'd let his pride get in the way of his sense: there was nothing wrong with kissing ass now and then, so long as it was a means to an end, and not a way of life.

And now, thanks to his conversation with Madeline, he saw what that end could be.

The two of them had stayed up the entire night before -- first, talking in the stairwell of his apartment building, then, after one too many interruptions by other tenants, walking through the streets until they reached a park. They planned out their vision of the future sitting on a bench under the moonlit trees, sharing a jacket when the night turned cold.

Madeline had told him quite a few interesting things: her clandestine relationship with George the most interesting of all. It hadn't surprised him, once he thought about it, to learn that George was less than loyal to Adrian, or even that George had turned to Madeline for help. It _had_ surprised him, at least a little, that Madeline hadn't told him about it before now. But what surprised him the most was that he wasn't bothered by her secrecy. In fact, he found himself strangely pleased. Having confidences from each other was inevitable, given the lives they led -- but finally, when it really mattered, she had told him everything. For him, that was the true definition of loyalty -- what one did when it counted -- and now he knew he had hers.

Then there was their vision. Their ideas meshed perfectly -- overlapping, filling in each other's gaps, building upon each other until they blended into a perfect whole. By the time the sun rose, hours later, they knew what Section could be: something far better than Adrian ever dreamed of, something remarkable and revolutionary. He could see it, like a shimmering land on the horizon, waiting for him to sail in and claim it as his kingdom.

But first, they needed to take control.

It wouldn't be enough that Adrian fail. It wouldn't be enough that George abandon her, or that Section rise in mutiny. All of those things would have to happen -- but also something more. Paul would have to demonstrate to whoever judged these things -- be it Center, or someone higher than that -- that he, and he alone, could deliver what Adrian couldn't.

That, in turn, meant he would have to develop outside connections. Do deals. Create a sphere of influence. Internal unrest could be left in Madeline's hands -- she would handle that with efficiency and flair -- but the outside connections he would have to forge himself.

The prospect was dangerous but exhilarating. Empowering. Invigorating. As he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled another lungful of smoke, he felt like he was breathing in life itself.

***

Madeline strolled along the dusty museum aisle, peering into glass-enclosed cases. The room was nearly silent, but for her footfalls; few visitors found their way to this obscure collection, and fewer still lingered once they saw its contents. Rows of shelves and cases housed the remains of 19th-century criminals and psychotics: preserved heads gaped, misshapen, from the interior of jars; wrinkled brains soaked in formalin baths; plaster deathmasks slept in stiffened serenity.

At the far end of the aisle, Ulanova stood transfixed as she examined old photos of surgical procedures. Madeline had thought the museum would be an excursion Ulanova might enjoy, and her instinct turned out to be correct. More importantly, however, it was a place where they could speak in private.

Madeline approached Ulanova. Ulanova cocked her head as she inspected a wax model, her eyes bright and intent like a sparrow's. She hadn't spoken since they entered the room. Finally, however, she pronounced her verdict.

"This is merely a collection of the lurid," she said scornfully. "There is nothing of scientific value here." But the longing look she gave the specimens belied her words.

"It was an attempt at cataloguing variations from the norm. Given the primitive state of knowledge at the time, it was a reasonable place to start."

Ulanova grunted. "Primitive is an understatement."

"That may be. But the medical establishment then did have at least one advantage over their modern counterparts."

"What was that?" Ulanova sounded skeptical.

"Freedom from public scrutiny. They could pursue research that would be frowned upon today -- using a steady supply of subjects from prisons and asylums."

Ulanova shrugged. "It was wasted on them. They lacked the technology to take advantage of it."

"True." Madeline paused. "Section could offer the best of both worlds."

Ulanova narrowed her eyes. "It could. But it doesn't."

"Someday that might change. You could be part of it." Madeline held Ulanova's gaze, then reached out and touched her arm. When Ulanova's face grew pink, Madeline gave her a warm smile and removed her hand again. "By the way," she said, changing the subject and yet not really changing the subject at all, "I read the L-18 report last night."

Ulanova raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

"It lacks balance."

"It is accurate," Ulanova said defensively.

"Only within a narrow range of parameters."

Ulanova didn't respond for several moments. Then she asked bluntly, "You want me to falsify the results, don't you?"

With great effort, Madeline resisted the urge to look away. Even now -- free of any possible surveillance, her courage buoyed by her newly-wrought plans with Paul -- the thought of lying to Adrian sent a sharp stab of fear through her. By hinting at it obliquely, she could pretend it was less than it was; when it was put in flat, stark terms, she couldn't evade it.

She kept her outer demeanor calm. "Adrian has set specific targets. If we fail to achieve them, the entire program will be terminated. Perhaps even personnel." She watched as Ulanova paled. "Adrian isn't willing to consider other directions. I, however, have an open mind. I see the program's larger potential. _Your_ larger potential. I want to preserve those options for the future."

"But if I change the test results," Ulanova said, frowning, "Adrian will learn the truth when the device fails in the field."

Madeline shook her head. "It's an unlikely scenario. Given the state of Red Cell's work, they're not going to deploy the device anytime in the next decade. If ever. Even if they do, we'll come up with an explanation. There are an almost infinite number of variables we can attribute it to."

"So we pretend to make progress? For how long?"

_Until Adrian's gone_, Madeline thought to herself. To Ulanova, she replied, "Until we have concrete results. She'll change her mind about the project when she sees something she can use."

"I see." Ulanova turned toward one of the cases and ran a finger along the glass. Then she glanced back at Madeline. "Why are you doing this? Surely this is a risk."

"Because I believe in the Section," Madeline replied. "And I won't let anyone stand in the way of what's best for it."

"Not even its creator?"

"No."

Uttering the word, she felt a surge of emotion; the intensity of it both shocked and pleased her. For a moment, she struggled to identify what it was. Then she knew. It was clarity of purpose -- pure, concentrated, and sweet. She let it sweep through her like a narcotic.

She noticed Ulanova staring at her, brow wrinkled in a nervous expression. On some level, she suddenly realized, Ulanova was afraid of her. The recognition intensified the sweetness. She smiled.

"I'll review the report again," said Ulanova hastily. "I think I can make it more balanced."


	22. Chapter 22

Adrian set down her teacup. Within seconds, the dark-suited young man dashed forward to refill it. She waved him off in irritation; bowing slightly, he withdrew.

Not just one, but _three_ attendants hovered obsequiously around the table. They thrust trays of food under the noses of the Council members like streetwalkers flashing bits of flesh at prospective johns. Only Adrian seemed to find them annoying. The Council, in contrast, snatched at the hors d'oeuvres with the relish of Roman nobles feeding on grapes. The room filled with the sound of their smacking.

So unseemly. The last time Adrian had occasion to visit the Clubroom, as they called it, it was still ruled with an iron fist by Didier. An old-school Swiss from Geneva, he knew the true meaning of the word service -- when to be attentive, and, more importantly, when to fade gracefully into the background. He would not have approved, Adrian decided, as she watched the young men circle and the old men gorge. But Didier, like most of the men he had served, was the past -- his influence fading, soon to be lost.

At least the Clubroom itself hadn't changed. The same heavy drapes blocked out any hint of the sun; the same oil portraits stared dourly from the walls; the stiff-backed furniture sat in the same positions as in 1963. Not even the Americans had dared change that.

It was one of the few things they left untouched.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the Council members set down his fork. Simpson. The younger of the two Americans present, he was a retired mining company executive from Wyoming, or Oklahoma, or one of those anonymous states from the godforsaken North American interior -- she could never remember which. He had a singular lack of interest in the human dimension of Section's work -- in lives saved, suffering prevented -- but mention enhancing Western control over copper, or chromium, or manganese, or cobalt, and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. He called it realpolitik. She called it despicable.

He stared at her for several moments. Then he made a great production of clearing his throat; his cheeks and neck swelled, froglike.

"So, tell me, Adrian," he said. "You actually expect us to believe that you're too broke to catch a single guy in a limo? I could walk into a Dallas shopping mall and round up ten security guards who'd do it for 100 bucks apiece."

Such belligerence was not a good sign. She hadn't expected Simpson to be immediately receptive -- he disliked her too much for that. But he detested Phillip just as much, so she had hoped for a semblance of neutrality.

She forced a smile. "It wasn't the mission itself that was the problem. Relatively speaking, it was a simple one. It suffered because my resources are spread too thin."

"You had a number of other operations taking place that day, correct?" prompted Laplace, the French member. He gazed at her encouragingly, his large brown eyes somber but kind.

He'd asked a deliberately easy question, and she was grateful for it. He, at least, might be considered an active ally, in no small part because of her insistence on locating Section One in Paris. She knew, even if others didn't, the importance of such gestures to a country that often felt outnumbered by the Anglo-American alliance.

"Sixteen, to be exact," she replied.

"But ten of them weren't tied to a specific target date. They could have been rescheduled," countered Strickland, the lone British member. Phillip's sponsor. And a viper of the first order. "Perhaps the problem isn't funding, but poorly thought-out coordination," he added archly.

She looked him in the eye. "When I receive intel on the enemy, I use it before it goes stale. Otherwise I'd be functioning as a mere archivist of historical data."

Like Center, she almost added. But she didn't have to -- the words may have been unspoken, but they were still understood. Strickland tightened his mouth angrily.

"How much funding do you need for optimal performance?" asked Ortiz, the Spaniard.

He was one of the newer members -- she didn't know him, but disliked him by reputation. The question, however, seemed straightforward enough, perhaps even sincere.

"At a minimum, I need a restoration to 1985 levels."

Simpson laughed derisively. "Oh, come on. 1985? You had the TWA hijacking and the Achille Lauro! Not to mention the Soviet succession in chaos after Chernenko. They couldn't stop throwing money at us that year. I don't think it's reasonable to measure by the high-water mark."

"But the threat has only grown since then."

"Yeah, but the mood has changed, especially when it comes to covert activities. The current investigations in America haven't turned into the Church Committee yet, but believe me, this just isn't the time to ask for more funding for black ops."

Adrian stiffened. "The entire purpose of the Sections is to enable the protectors of liberty to avoid the petty vagaries of domestic politics."

Simpson rolled his eyes. "That's a nice speech, Adrian, but if you really believe that, you're living in Fantasy Land."

"Well now, Adrian," drawled Reynolds, the second American, "I don't believe this is about money at all."

The senior member of the Council, Reynolds was a courtly Southerner whose slow speech disguised a keen mind. With his shock of white hair and slight tremble of Parkinson's, he looked like a doddering grandfather; in reality, his sharp grey eyes missed nothing. He said little, but when he spoke it was usually decisive.

He took a bite of his food and chewed thoroughly, crumbs clinging to his lower lip. The others waited in silence, as if holding their collective breaths.

Finally, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

"I've been around long enough to recognize a pi--, spitting contest when I see one." He aimed a broad smile at Adrian -- for a moment, she thought he might even wink.

She started to respond, but something stopped her. The twinkle in his eye was that of someone amused by a naughty but precocious child. He wasn't taking her seriously. None of them were, she suddenly realized, looking around at the table and seeing a variety of patronizing expressions. They'd decided their response ahead of time, no doubt agreeing to the meeting just to humor her. She felt her face flush with anger and injured pride.

"I think the current arrangement works just fine," said Reynolds, and the others nodded in agreement. "Having to work with Phillip keeps you on your toes. A little rivalry never hurt anyone." With a shaky finger, he beckoned one of the attendants forward. "You really should try the canapé," he invited. "It's delicious."

***

Charles shifted his legs under the desk and flexed his lower back. Adrian kept her chair a great deal lower to the floor than he liked, and after all morning working in the Perch, it was beginning to be more than a little uncomfortable.

Somehow, though, the idea of adjusting the height seemed wrong: an overly familiar gesture, a usurpation of privilege by one who was only a guest. This was ridiculous, of course, and he knew it. Adrian had given him command in her absence, and he ought to be able to readjust the chair, move the vase away from where it kept knocking into his elbow, even toss out the rapidly wilting flowers if he wanted to.

And yet, he didn't. Couldn't.

Perhaps it was because he knew, in the back of his mind, that his "command" was a relative thing. Strictly speaking, George was still Adrian's second, and she had given Charles stern orders to call George immediately in the event of anything beyond the strictly routine. It was somewhat like being a dog on a leash -- while he could run all he liked, he couldn't stray far.

For all practical purposes, however, he'd been leader of Section for two full days. It was a strange sensation. He had, upon occasion, taken charge by default of the chain of command during odd hours, when he was the senior operative present. But it had never been an official transfer of authority before, never the formal handing over of the command key, never such an open endorsement of his qualifications. He didn't know whether to be flattered or worried that it was more of a test than an endorsement. Knowing Adrian, it was probably something of both.

Whatever the case, he was determined to do a good job. He'd been putting in 18-hour days since her departure, and was proud to say that each mission so far had been flawless.

He returned his attention to the pile of status reports on the desk and scanned the summaries of each. Most involved routine intel gathering; others set forth policy recommendations; two contained prep for missions scheduled later that afternoon. He flagged the intel for routing to the appropriate analysts and profilers, set aside the recommendations for Adrian's return, and began to review the mission outlines in detail. He'd be running tactical on both of them, and he needed to review the profiles before they went live. He would probably have to fine-tune the parameters of each -- he'd found several profiles seriously wanting the prior day. Too many inexperienced profilers. He would have to speak to Adrian about that when she returned.

A noise at the door made him look up. Konstantin, a chubby DRV analyst with a perpetual sheen of perspiration on his broad face, nodded tersely and approached the desk. He placed several floppy disks on a tray.

"The latest reports from the Central African Sector," Konstantin said, by way of explanation, then exited.

Charles looked at the pile with dismay. The new disks looked like at least two more hours of work. The volume of data coming in was overwhelming, even on a day when nothing in particular was going on. It was hard to imagine how Adrian coped, day after day, with the demands of the job. While she was quite obviously brilliant and capable -- something she had the somewhat tiresome habit of reminding everyone of at frequent intervals -- he wondered if it wasn't really a sort of insanity that kept her going. An obsessive-compulsive disorder or egomaniacal fixation -- whatever it was that drove one to spend every waking moment in a quest to remake the world in her own image.

It reminded him of his missionary uncle, in fact -- the one who'd spent thirty-five years in a malaria-infested jungle, engaged in a fervent but futile effort to convert "pagan idolaters." Charles had been forced to spend several summers there as a teen, reading scripture to listless villagers in the local schoolhouse, struggling to appear pious while sweat poured down his face and trickled under his starched collar. It was utterly fruitless and probably mad. Yet the mission also dug wells, treated the sick, and provided the only education available for miles around. Section was much like that: chasing an unachievable, maybe even imaginary ideal, but along the way accomplishing some things of genuine value. Charles believed in the cause less and less every day -- but he was content being one of the well diggers.

When he heard footsteps again, he sighed. Yet another delivery of data? It was never-ending.

He looked up wearily. To his surprise, Paul Wolfe stood at the doorway, eyeing Charles with a bemused expression.

So Paul had finally decided to show his face again, after making himself noticeably scarce for several days. Charles hadn't been present in Section to witness Paul's insubordination to Adrian, but what he heard of the incident disgusted him. Paul's actions were inexcusable and childish. Even if one disapproved of a commander's decisions -- even if that disapproval was justified, as Charles suspected it might have been -- insulting her openly was unacceptable behavior. Especially coming from a military man. It was a disgrace, really.

Paul strolled into the Perch, his pace and demeanor relaxed and confident. For someone who'd felt compelled to hide out for the past two days, he seemed in a strangely good mood. His pale eyes held a trace of mirth, as if he considered the whole world designed for his personal amusement. There was no shame in those eyes, no guilt or regret -- and looking into them, Charles realized just how much he despised the man. It wasn't just a matter of misunderstandings or even mere personal rivalry, but of completely clashing values.

"I'm looking for Adrian," Paul said.

"She'll be back tomorrow."

"And she left _you_ in charge?" Paul raised his eyebrows; his mouth took a wry twist.

"That's right." Charles straightened his posture and gave Paul a hard look.

Paul walked around the desk, moving slowly, like a dog sniffing around contested territory. His gaze dropped to the mission prep that sat open on the desktop.

Charles stood. "Is there something you need?"

Paul ignored the question and continued to inspect the report. Finally, he said, "You should be using a staggered formation on approach."

The urge to take a swing at Paul seized Charles. That bastard. Waiting until Adrian was gone and then trying to show off in some sort of macho posturing game.

Trying to control his anger, he looked down at the report. As he stared at it, it struck him. Paul was right. A staggered formation would probably shave a few minutes off the estimated completion time -- and as he well knew, every minute counted. He should have seen it himself. But he didn't.

He swore to himself silently, then he swallowed his hurt pride. A gentleman would have the strength of character to admit his mistakes. No matter _who_ pointed them out.

"That's a good suggestion," he said. "Thank you."

"Anytime." Paul looked him up and down. There was a smirk, just barely suppressed, but also a hint of disappointment that he hadn't succeeded in goading Charles. It was as if he'd girded himself for a duel only to find no one interested in accepting the challenge. After a long pause, he said, "I guess I'll speak to Adrian tomorrow. See you later, Charles."

***

The soup steamed in its china bowl, the aroma heavy with pepper and leeks. George stirred the liquid and lifted a spoonful, pursing his lips to blow it cool before he took a sip.

Dining alone, he finished quickly. The spoon clinked and scraped against the side of the bowl; the bread crunched as he broke it apart to spread on butter. When the bowl was empty, he moved it aside and sat back in his chair. He stared at the empty expanse of the table beyond him; its polished surface shone even in the dim light. Across the room, a clock ticked steadily.

The door opened and a gray-haired man entered. Instead of bearing the next course, he was empty-handed and apologetic-looking.

"Telephone, sir. A Mr. Phillip Jones."

Phillip. Finally.

George pushed back his chair and stood.

"I'll take it in the study."

"Very good, sir."

George walked down the carpeted hallway, halfway numb, like a sleepwalker. All day long, he'd been trying not to think about Adrian's meeting with the Council -- trying not to indulge his hopes, for fear they would be dashed; trying not to dwell on his worries, for fear they would be confirmed.

Now, it was time.

He entered the study and closed the door soundly behind him. He sat at the desk and took a breath of anticipation, then picked up the telephone receiver.

"Good evening, Phillip."

"George."

There was a long silence. It seemed to stretch on and on, building the suspense until George thought he might burst.

"Is it good news or bad, then?" he asked, unable to bear waiting any longer.

"Both. Or neither. Depending on one's perspective."

So typical of Phillip to give a cryptic answer.

"How do you mean?" George tried to hide the impatience from his voice.

"The Council declined Adrian's request for autonomy. They were most grateful to us for advising them of her plans in advance -- because of that, they weren't taken in by her manufactured crisis."

"That's a relief." _But?_, he asked mentally.

"Unfortunately," continued Phillip, answering George's unspoken question, "they didn't see fit to discipline her, either. They seem to think this is a trivial spat between the two of us. They told me we needed to 'work it out.'"

"So it's a stalemate." George felt both his hopes and fears collapse, as if the air had been let out of them.

"Alas, she'll remain the proverbial thorn in my side for the foreseeable future," Phillip said dryly. "And you'll remain her errand boy."

The remark stung, even though George knew Phillip was deliberately trying to provoke him. The problem was that Phillip was right. If things remained the way they were, he'd be living in Adrian's shadow forever. The thought was unbearable. The alternative, however, was something he hadn't wanted to face.

The alternative meant active betrayal, and tremendous risk. It was an enormous gamble -- and even a source of shame. Until now, he'd kept those plans to himself and, to a limited degree, Madeline. He had thought -- hoped -- that Phillip's intervention would render it all unnecessary. How foolish that had been. The question now was whether he should reveal his plans to Phillip and seek his assistance. Phillip's cooperation might make all the difference between failure and success -- but then again, sharing the idea with Phillip rendered him much more vulnerable.

Phillip couldn't be trusted. George knew that. Then again, there were very few options.

He picked up a glass paperweight. Rolling it in his palm, he watched the light reflect within it. Finally, he worked up his nerve.

"There might be another way," he offered cautiously.

"Really?" Phillip sounded skeptical.

"You tried to remove her from above. Perhaps the answer lies below."

There was another pause. "Explain."

"A mutiny of dissatisfied subordinates. A coup d'état, so to speak."

"That's been done," Phillip said dismissively. "Remember 1969? It only made her stronger."

"That's because she stopped it on her own. But what if she actually lost control of Section One for a few days? Had to be rescued? Do you think the Council would continue to support her then?"

Again, a long silence.

"And just how would this happen?"

"There are some operatives I believe can be encouraged in that direction," George said, careful not to reveal too much. Phillip didn't need to know who, or how, or even how long George had been preparing for this.

"It would have to be tightly controlled. We can't have the peasants running amok."

"I can assure you it would be."

Phillip took a long breath. "It might work, but it troubles me. I don't like the precedent."

No. That was indeed a serious drawback. If they allowed one coup to succeed, others might follow. Others that weren't under their direction and control. But George had anticipated that.

"I've considered that issue," he said. "I believe we can deter any would-be imitators."

"How?"

George smiled to himself. "By canceling the coup leader afterwards."


	23. Chapter 23

Behind Paul, a throat cleared, light but insistent. He turned and saw Adrian at the threshold to his office, resting a hand against the door frame. She watched him steadily but without expression.

"Good morning, Paul."

They hadn't faced each other since their confrontation. Seeing her, he felt a surge of adrenaline -- a rush composed of equal parts excitement and pleasure. He found himself staring quite openly, thrilled and fascinated, as if he had never met her before.

Perhaps, in a sense, he hadn't. From his new vantage point, she'd been transformed. No longer was she a person to be feared; no longer was she a person to be impressed or even admired. Now, she was simply an adversary. He could study her the way one would an opponent across a chessboard, searching her eyes for that one fatal weakness.

He knew it was there. He knew he would find it. He relished that knowledge, rolling its taste in his mouth like the flavor of victory.

She entered the office and took a seat at the table, then she gestured for him to do the same. He sat. And then he waited.

The air hung with awkwardness, as tangible as jungle humidity. To cut through it, he clasped his hands together on the table in a gesture of earnestness and worked up his best "reluctant but contrite" expression.

"What I did was inexcusable," he said. "You're the commander. I had no right to speak to you like that."

"No, you didn't." She seemed strangely devoid of anger -- devoid of any emotion, in fact. "But you did have the right to be upset."

He didn't know what to make of her comment or her demeanor. Her mood was muted, soft, very unlike herself.

"In your shoes," she said, "I would have been outraged. We squandered an opportunity to eliminate a key member of a vicious terrorist organization." Suddenly, her expression changed, sparking into reproachful life. "However, had I been you, I also would have borne in mind that decisions are made for _reasons_, even if I may not be privy to them."

She stared at him pointedly.

"I apologize." He dropped his gaze in mock repentance. "My team members were dying all around me. I allowed myself to get carried away by the emotion of the moment."

"Paul Wolfe, overwrought at the death of his subordinates?" She quirked an eyebrow. "I believe that's a first."

A tone of amused skepticism had crept into her voice, and he wanted to kick himself for overdoing it.

"While I can appreciate and perhaps even sympathize with your feelings," she continued, mercifully letting the matter pass, "the fact remains that you crossed the line into insubordination. I cannot simply let it go, you understand."

He braced himself. "I understand."

"Good." She eyed him for a moment, hawklike. "Effective immediately, you're demoted to Level One. You'll be reassessed after six months."

He nodded, concentrating on suppressing a sigh of relief. A six-month demotion? He'd expected far worse.

Then again, he wasn't exactly home free, either. He'd be at the mercy of team leaders who hated him -- subject to their orders and their petty harassment. No doubt they'd take full advantage of the chance to make his life miserable. Let them try. He was smarter than they were. Better than they were. They'd either wind up letting him run their missions for them, if they were smart, or suffering the consequences of trying to mess with him, if they were stupid. He didn't really care which they turned out to be.

He expected Adrian to get up and depart, but she didn't. Instead she drummed her fingers on the table distractedly. In the fluorescent light, the veins stood out on her hand, large and blue.

Finally, she stood. She turned toward him, but she seemed to be looking through him.

"Sometimes," she said, her voice thin and tired, "the only option is to start from the beginning again."

***

The elevator hummed as it rose through Section. Adrian watched the floor numbers light her progress; the steady blink was mentally soothing, as was the soft vibration through the soles of her shoes.

What a relief to have put the discussion with Paul behind her. After her disappointment with the Council, she hadn't had the energy for a confrontation. Fortunately, he hadn't sought one. In fact, he'd been surprisingly self-restrained, even after she announced his demotion. Had she been inclined to care, she even might have been proud of him. But it was too late for that: Paul, at this point, was irrelevant. She only wished she hadn't wasted so much effort on him over so many years.

How could she have placed so much hope on a single person?

How, for that matter, could she have placed so much hope on a group of arrogant old men?

So foolish. Her only hope was in herself. When she was young, she'd understood that. At what point had she forgotten?

The elevator slowed to a halt and the doors rumbled open. She straightened her jacket with a brisk tug and stepped out.

Level Twelve was more brightly-lit than most areas of Section. It was also considerably noisier -- and odiferous, in that unpleasant manner of hospitals and morgues. She hated the smells; they seeped into her hair and clothing and accompanied her the rest of the day, an invisible but omnipresent taint of death.

The hallway was busy -- busier than she remembered it ordinarily being. The workers' demeanors seemed more purposeful, as well, in a way she couldn't quite explain. As she made her way down the corridor, some of them clearly recognized her and did a bad job of pretending not to, but others seemed genuinely oblivious to her identity.

When had she last visited here? She searched her memory but couldn't remember.

She turned a corner and entered a small office. Inside, Madeline looked up from the papers spread across her desk. She started to stand, but Adrian waved her back down.

"You have results on the L-18 project?"

"Yes," Madeline answered. "I sent you the full report this morning."

Lovely. Another report, to be added to the stack of others Charles had left. The very thought was fatiguing.

Adrian pulled over an empty chair and sat. "Just give me the highlights, please," she said.

"Phase Three has been completed on schedule. So far, the results exceed expectations."

"Do they? Remarkable." It was all so easy -- one of the few things that actually appeared to be running smoothly. As an afterthought, she asked, "How is Doctor Ulanova doing?"

"She's reasonably integrated into Section, despite some minor socialization issues. I'm working with the laboratory staff to resolve those."

"Have the other technical recruits been productive? The ones she requested?"

"Their numbers are among the highest in Section."

Madeline began to elaborate with names and figures, but Adrian found her thoughts straying. In truth, she hadn't the slightest interest in the performance of entry-level lab researchers. What difference did any of them make, if Adrian couldn't control the organization they worked for? But what could she do? Declare independence? Impossible. Submit? Unthinkable.

With a start, she realized that Madeline had finished and was waiting for a response.

"Very good then," Adrian said hastily. "It sounds like things are proceeding at an acceptable pace."

"We're ready to commence Phase Four, with your authorization."

"You have it, then." She rose to leave. "Keep me fully apprised."

She started for the door, but then an odd whim seized her. She stopped and looked back at Madeline, who sat with her hands primly folded atop her desk, regarding Adrian in that feline manner of hers.

So many people had been failures or disappointments. Madeline had been one of the few she'd never had any significant expectations of. And yet there she was: indispensable. An unaccustomed sense of gratitude arose, mixed with a twinge of guilt.

"Thank you, Madeline," she said. It wasn't enough, she knew, but perhaps it was a start.

A look of surprise momentarily creased Madeline's brow. When she said nothing, Adrian turned away.

***

All the anxiety, all the dread that had built and built toward a crescendo of fear that Adrian would see through the fraud -- it had all been for nothing.

Madeline marveled. She'd put so much effort into it, working with Ulanova to rewrite the research data until the falsehoods were undetectable, and yet she'd still been terrified that Adrian would see the lie in her face. It had happened before, disastrously, and the memory of it made her heart race.

This time, Adrian did nothing. She'd even seemed pleased with Madeline's work, offering thanks instead of her customary dry barbs. Immediately afterwards, Madeline fought a compulsion to flee the premises, certain that at any moment Adrian would reappear with more questions and trip her up. But she hadn't. Madeline finished her workday unmolested and headed home, so giddy with success that she kept smiling to herself involuntarily, attracting odd looks from passersby.

She'd lied -- boldly and shamelessly -- and Adrian hadn't noticed. Adrian wasn't omniscient after all; she couldn't always read Madeline's mind and push her buttons; she was human and weak and therefore vulnerable.

_She's finished._ Somehow, Madeline knew it with an unshakable certainty.

Arriving at her apartment, she turned the key in the lock and began to open the door. Then she froze. Inside, the light was on, and she knew she hadn't left it that way.

It was against Section regulations to carry a weapon when not on a mission; nevertheless, she habitually did. Glad for her foresight, she slipped the Beretta out of her coat pocket and entered the apartment in a burst of aggression.

"Good evening," said George, smiling at the pistol aimed at his chest.

He sat on the sofa, reclining comfortably against the cushions, a copy of the latest issue of _Le Canard enchaîné_ spread open in his hands. He'd made himself quite at home: he'd even poured himself a drink, apparently having rummaged through the cabinets to find her liquor, several bottles of which sat on the coffee table.

She lowered the gun and drew a deep breath.

In all the years she'd known George, he had never visited her home before. While he'd done many things to remind her of his authority, he had always been scrupulous to preserve the illusion of personal privacy. She'd known it was an illusion, of course, but the pretense was a mark of courtesy, and she appreciated the gesture.

Now, she wasn't sure whether to be angry or fearful.

She placed the gun on a shelf. She said nothing, unwilling to acknowledge to him that she considered his visit unusual or unexpected. She closed the door, tossed her keys into a dish by the door, and took off her coat and draped it over a chair.

"You don't have any gin," he said accusingly.

"I don't care for it."

"Pity."

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He reached for an empty glass, dropped a few ice cubes into it, and poured another drink.

"Here," he said, offering her the glass.

He hadn't asked her what she wanted, or even if she wanted anything at all. The presumption made her resentful. Still, she took the drink and took a seat in one of the chairs.

She took a sip. It was far too strong. She found herself idly wondering whether he might have drugged it, but she drank it anyway.

"See that corner?" He nodded toward the far end of the room.

She followed his gaze.

"That's where the camera is." He paused, as if waiting for her reaction. "But don't worry. I'm familiar with your surveillance rotation, and it's dormant at the moment."

She studied her drink, refusing to look him in the eye. She could feel his stare: a cold burn on her skin, like dry ice.

"Over the past few years," he said, "you've done very well in our little joint venture."

She looked up. Again, he was smiling -- an expression that looked so stiff and unnatural she imagined he must have wrenched his facial muscles in the effort to look pleasant.

"I greatly appreciate the information and insight you've provided," he continued.

"That's very gratifying," she said, deciding to return platitudes with platitudes.

He seemed amused -- perhaps in approval of her cautious response, or perhaps at her expense. "I'm so glad you feel that way." The amusement faded from his expression. "You've known all along I'd eventually ask more of you."

She said nothing. But he waited, patiently, until she finally felt forced to speak. It was a capitulation on her part, but then that was the point, wasn't it?

"What would you like me to do?" she asked in surrender.

"Why, start a rebellion, of course."

A look of triumph lit his face, and she gripped her glass more tightly in apprehension. Did George know about her plans with Paul? They'd been careful to avoid any possible surveillance, but the coincidence in timing was more than disturbing. Perhaps, though, it was something simpler: Adrian was weakening and they all sensed it, like animals drawn by the scent of blood.

"Not today, mind you," he added. "But I'd like you to shift your energies from passive information-gathering to something more proactive. Begin to lay the seeds of disloyalty among those who will be the most receptive, and water them liberally."

"Where should I start?" she asked, hoping he might reveal more of his intentions, or, even better, how much he already knew of hers.

"I recommend that you cultivate a coup leader or two." At her questioning look, he explained, "It won't do for you to take the lead. People will be easier to manipulate if they think you're neutral. Besides, if something happens, you're more protected."

She dreaded asking the next question, but did anyway. "Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Paul strikes me as the rebellious type."

She felt herself flush. "Yes, I suppose he is."

"I'd also recommend Charles."

"Charles?" She forgot her worries in genuine surprise. "I can't imagine him crossing against a light, much less leading a mutiny."

"You underestimate him, then."

His look was sharp. She felt a wave of shame, as if she had been rebuked for an especially foolish error.

He glanced at his watch. "The camera comes on in ten minutes," he said. "I must go."

They rose, and she accompanied him to the door. As he shrugged on his overcoat, she could smell the heavy scent of his cologne.

"We stand on the brink of something remarkable," he said. "Be patient, and you'll be rewarded."

With a parting kiss on her cheeks, he left.

**End of Part Three**


	24. Chapter 24

## Part Four - 1989

 

The van bounced along the rutted dirt road, jerking Lisa back and forth against the operatives beside her. She did her best to ignore their grunts and sharp elbows; to pass the time, she played absentmindedly with the straps of her rifle sling.

On the bench opposite, another operative sat by the portable satellite uplink. The woman kept switching it on and off and back on again in an effort to adjust the settings, and the incessant series of beeps and clicks was getting on Lisa's nerves.

"Would you cut that out?" snapped Lisa. "You'll just have to recalibrate for the new coordinates when we get there. It's pointless to do it now." _Not to mention really fucking annoying_, she thought but didn't say.

The operative shot Lisa a nasty look and turned toward Bertold, the team leader, for support.

"You heard her, Valeska," he said, smacking his gum. "Turn it off."

Valeska rolled her eyes but complied. _Bitch_, she mouthed at Lisa when Bertold looked away.

Lisa was about to flip her off in return, but then she thought better of it. Why bother? After all, Valeska wasn't going to last very long. Lisa had reached that conclusion already, despite the fact that the two women hadn't spent more than forty-five minutes together. By this time in her career, Lisa could pick out mission casualties almost at first sight, and Valeska nearly stank of dead meat. If she didn't get her head blown off this time, then it would be the next, or maybe the one after that if she got really lucky. In any event, there was no point getting to know her. No point feeling sorry for her. No point disliking her, even. Forming an opinion of any kind would just be a waste of energy. All Lisa cared about was that the moron had stopped screwing around with the equipment. Glad at the relative quiet, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall of the van.

"So, Lisa." The voice belonged to Umar, a skinny, intense Level One who'd been with her in Tangiers the week before. "You've been around forever, and you know your stuff. Why aren't you a team leader by now?"

Lisa opened her eyes to find the gaze of entire team focused on her. All except Bertold, who looked away uncomfortably. He knew the answer already.

"My numbers aren't high enough," she said. When Umar made a face in disbelief, she shrugged. "I don't test well."

Umar still looked skeptical, but the statement was true. What she neglected to mention, however, was that she didn't _try_ to test well. Instead, she made every effort to ensure that her scores came out exceedingly average. Her aim was mediocrity and therefore anonymity: she never applied for promotions and took great pains to avoid assignments that would result in anything other than the most perfunctory review. She was, quite intentionally, the very definition of "the middle of the pack" in all things.

At least officially. The team leaders knew better, but they didn't say anything to Adrian. Why would they, when having her on their teams kept _their_ numbers high? Madeline, as chief profiler and the main compiler of test results, no doubt knew as well, but she kept as silent as the team leaders. She and Lisa had an understanding about such things once upon a time when they might have been called friends, and while those days were long past, it appeared Madeline still kept that confidence. Why, Lisa had no idea, but she wasn't about to start questioning good fortune.

So Level Two she remained. That way, she could do her job without any effort -- and, more importantly, with hardly any prep time. That was the key. Time was a precious commodity, something to be scavenged and hoarded whenever possible. She needed every spare moment she could find, in fact -- because she had a personal mission to take care of that mattered a hell of a lot more than professional advancement in Section. And she devoted every hour, every minute, every second she could squeeze from the day to it.

With Mireille's reluctant help, she'd been reviewing information on all the Level 16 children. There weren't many, no more than a dozen, but the sheer volume of data was overwhelming. Training programs. Progress reports. Psychological profiles. Medical records. All of it collected over more than a decade from both the children within Section and their siblings in the control group outside.

Seymour, she discovered, was an anomaly in that respect. He was the only twin; the others were all children of operatives who had left existing families behind upon recruitment. She had even surveilled several of those families when missions took her to the vicinity. A few times, when she felt particularly reckless, she donned disguises and talked to them directly. Would Section notice the occasional saleswoman or postal worker chatting with the subjects? She always half expected it would, but when nothing ever happened, she grew complacent. The all-seeing and all-knowing Section, like so many other things in life, turned out to be a myth.

And now? Now she knew everything. Everything except one odd detail: what were the references to something called Center that filled the children's files? Reports were submitted to it and instructions received in return, but Center -- whatever it was -- seemed to be outside the jurisdiction of the Sections. Maybe beyond Adrian's control altogether. Mireille told her it didn't matter, but she didn't understand: the only thing that got Lisa out of bed every morning was the overwhelming strength of her hate for whoever was responsible for fucking up her son's life. She wanted to know -- no, she needed to know -- who the enemy was. So she could focus. So she could plan. Plan what, she wasn't sure. When the time came, she'd come up with something.

Until then, however, she had to work on finding out what Center was. Mireille was clueless. Jules only knew that that it had something to do with Section's funding. Together, he and Lisa tried -- and failed -- to access any connection to it on the computer network. Lisa suspected that Walter might know more -- he'd been around from the very beginning, after all -- but she no longer trusted him enough to ask.

She didn't let Walter know that, though. To his face, she was still warm and jocular, full of friendly punches on the arm and glib remarks like "Hey, Walter!" and "How's it going, Walter?" and "Oh, Walter, you're so funny!" She never asked him "So, what else have you hidden from me Walter?" She never even asked a simple "How could you, Walter?" -- even though the question burned on her tongue every time she saw him.

Jules, Mireille, the team leaders: she could rely on them, to a point, because she had something to trade. But with Walter, all she'd had to offer was her friendship. Shame on her for thinking that was enough. She should have known there was no such thing as friendship in Section.

Bertold whacked her on the arm and broke off her thoughts.

"Hey. Wake up. We're almost there."

She made a great show of yawning. "Don't worry. I could do this job in my sleep."

***

Adrian closed her eyes and leaned back into the cushioned seat of the jet. She didn't want to sleep, not with a half-dozen unread reports spread out on the table in front of her, but the effort to keep her eyes open was just too great to continue struggling.

For a few moments she succeeded in blocking out everything from her mind except the noise of the plane's engines. Its blissful hum embraced her, vibrating straight through to her bones. But then the thoughts began to creep back.

Another meeting with a potential financial backer. Another rejection. Another avenue of independence closed. It disgusted her how timid they all were, these men of supposed substance and power, virtually cowering at the thought of what the Council might do to upstart rivals. After two years of courting them, her only successes had been with minor players: those too marginal -- or perhaps too stupid -- to care whether they offended the existing establishment. She'd collected pledges of support from several dozen of them. But they wouldn't be enough. Even collectively, they didn't possess the resources to render her self-supporting. If she cut off ties to Center and the Council now, she'd be bankrupt within months.

It was pointless to continue, really. This road led nowhere. She would need to rethink everything and devise a new approach, unwelcome as that prospect might be.

She opened her eyes. Through the window, lights shone like a glimmering blanket thrown across the dark landscape. She heard a thump as the landing gear opened and the plane descended. It touched down smoothly and taxied into the hangar.

She had scarcely reached the bottom of the rollaway steps when a man waved her toward an office.

"Telephone, ma'am."

She crossed the hangar into the office and took the receiver. "Yes?"

"Good evening, ma'am. Charles here."

She smiled to herself. "Yes, Charles. I do believe I recognize your voice by now."

"I wasn't certain whether you were planning on returning to Section tonight or heading directly home. So I thought I'd call and give you a status report."

She glanced at her watch. Midnight. By her usual standards, it wasn't late at all. On the other hand, she couldn't remember when she had ever felt so weary. The promise of home, bed and dreamless oblivion was enormously enticing.

"Go ahead," she said.

"Bertold's team was successful in Berlin. They liquidated the weapons cache with only one casualty on our side."

"Who?"

"A Level One named Valeska."

The name meant nothing to Adrian. The new ones were all beginning to blur in her mind. They came and went so quickly that none of them stood out anymore, for good or ill. What was it about them that made them so unmemorable? Perhaps the younger generation lacked distinct characters. Or perhaps she just didn't care anymore.

"Anything else?" she asked, her energy lagging.

"Only routine matters. They can await your return tomorrow."

Routine matters. What a meaningless thing to say. After all, everything at Section One was routine now. And for that she had no one to blame but herself. While she roamed the globe in a fruitless and rather tawdry scramble after pennies, she'd allowed Section to slip into dull, mechanistic predictability. Charles and Madeline managed most of the day to day operations in her absence, and although they were an efficient and thoroughly capable team, they were at heart caretakers, not leaders. Perfectionists, not innovators. Their Section was an anemic creature, incapable of growth, of adaptation, of the bold changes of course necessary to keep an organization alive and relevant. In short, they lacked inspiration: a quality Adrian possessed in abundance. Or at least used to. Sadly, it seemed to have deserted her of late.

She shook herself out of that train of thought. "Thank you, Charles," she said. "I'll see you in the morning."

She hung up and began the walk across the hangar toward her car. When the driver closed the door behind her and sealed her into the back seat, she had never felt so alone.

***

It was well after dark when Madeline arrived at her apartment building, and a light rain slickened the streets. Closing her umbrella, she ducked into a shop to purchase a newspaper -- she didn't actually want one, but a woman had been on her heels for two blocks, and it was prudent to ensure she wasn't being followed.

The woman disappeared down the sidewalk. A false alarm, but one could never be too cautious. Madeline paid for the newspaper, bid the proprietor good evening, and entered her building.

She dragged her hand along the banister in fatigue as climbed the stairs. It had been more than a full day of work, followed by two more hours paying a "social" call on Eduard, the head of Accommodations. He tended toward tedious, self-important monologues, and tonight was no exception. But she'd forced herself to smile, plied him with 80-year-old armagnac at his favorite café, and showered him with compliments about his refined taste. Once he was flushed with alcohol and flattery, she warned him with oh-so-sympathetic concern that Adrian was about to transfer his boyfriend to Pakistan. When Eduard became suitably alarmed, Madeline reassured him that she would intervene to prevent it -- which in turn made him suitably grateful.

The entire story was, of course, a fabrication. Eduard, with his access to operatives' homes and personal lives, was one of the best sources of blackmail material in all of Section, and Madeline had been working him for months. It had taken patience and persistence, but now she finally had him, and she felt a warming sense of triumph as she mentally checked him off her list.

That list was getting longer by the day. Ever since George gave her the order, she'd been systematically wooing sympathizers. She started from her base in Profiling, Interrogation, DRV and R&amp;D. She'd hand-selected most of the personnel herself and knew she had their loyalty. From there, she expanded her influence to Housekeeping, Maintenance, and, more recently, Accommodations. Adrian considered their activities routine and thus beneath the rarified stratosphere of her intellectual engagement. Madeline, in contrast, believed that the very dull regularity that bored Adrian so much was, in fact, their greatest asset. They were invisible but ubiquitous. Individually, they were insignificant; collectively, they knew every single thing that every operative -- including Adrian -- ever did.

Medlab, although more peripheral, had also become a useful source of intel about people's secrets and weaknesses; she kept her informant there in line by keeping quiet about his addiction to medication. Other departments, however, were more problematic. There was Systems, run by the unreliable Jules. She hadn't made much headway there, and it worried her. Munitions -- and Walter -- was another challenge. Walter wasn't a threat -- he was too much survival-focused to stick his neck out for Adrian if he felt the wind was changing. But he wouldn't make a good conspirator, either. Madeline respected that he was good at his job, had developed a cordial relationship with him, and to her own surprise had even grown somewhat fond of his broad sense of humor, but she kept him very much at arms length. He wouldn't be a hindrance, of that she was certain, and that was enough.

The field ops were trickier. She hadn't done much fieldwork in the past several years, and because of her role in profiling and personnel assessment, she knew they saw her as somewhat of an adversary. She could work on them to a degree, but they were almost as wary of her as they were of Adrian. Nor did Paul exercise much influence. He had some allies, but he had alienated almost as many people as he'd won over.

That was where Charles came in. After Paul's demotion, he became the senior field operative and _de facto_ tactician. He may not have been a charismatic leader, but the rank and file respected him as competent and fair. His dissent could sway enough opinion to doom any rebellion to disaster. Unfortunately, while he was by no means an Adrian loyalist _per se_, he was so very, very scrupulous about duty, honor, and doing the proper thing. Ordinarily, that was a quality Madeline appreciated. Here, it rendered him a wild card she'd rather do without.

Paul had wanted to kill him. He proposed tampering with a mission profile to turn Charles into an "accidental" casualty. It wasn't unprecedented. Madeline had, in fact, resorted to that very method to eliminate a handful of particularly troublesome Adrian sycophants. But in this case, she resisted. She told herself that she had good reason: that it would be imprudent, a waste of a skilled and experienced operative. She told herself that it would needlessly provoke George, who had urged her to cultivate Charles as an alternate coup leader. She told herself that Paul was being swayed by personal prejudice and failing to be objective. That she, too, might have some bias in the matter was a possibility she entertained briefly, but dismissed. She felt affection for Charles, true enough. But her friendship with him was irrelevant. Were he genuinely an obstacle, she would treat him as such and deal with him resolutely, regardless of her feelings. However, there was a better way. She insisted on following it, and Paul -- no matter how much he argued -- could not convince her otherwise.

To get people on their side, she used a wide range of methods: blackmail, lies, threats, promises, temptations, manipulation. With Charles, it was easy. She simply gave him what she'd always known he wanted.

She opened the door and entered the apartment. It smelled of beef stew and toasted bread.

"Hello, Charles," she said. "I'm sorry I'm late."

His face lit up happily, and he set down the report he was reading. "Hello, darling."

She walked over to the sofa and kissed his forehead in greeting.

"I saved dinner for you," he said. "You must be famished."

"I am," she admitted. "All I've had since lunch has been bread and cheese."

"Sit down, then, and I'll get it ready."

"Let me help."

"No. You look tired. Sit and relax."

She smiled in acquiescence. "All right. Thank you."

She settled onto the sofa, and he disappeared into the kitchen. Soon she heard the clatter of dishes and serving spoons. She opened the newspaper she'd bought downstairs and began thumbing through the pages. There was a transit strike in Lyons. The Nikkei index was up. Rumors were spreading of an impending coup in Nigeria. She smiled at the last article: she'd started that rumor herself.

"It's going to need a little time to reheat," said Charles, emerging from the kitchen.

She looked up from the newspaper. He stared at her with the oddest expression, as if he were about to burst into song.

"What is it?"

His mouth quirked into a not-quite-restrained smile. "I have something to show you."

Puzzled, she followed him across the room. He pulled open the glass doors that led to the balcony and gestured for her to step outside.

That morning, the balcony was empty but for a wrought-iron chair that was more decorative than it was comfortable. Now, the space was transformed: it held a miniature forest of trees sprouting from rows of earthenware pots. The air was fragrant with the scent of juniper, wood chips and damp earth. She stood in the doorway, transfixed.

"I had a fellow from Kyoto install it this afternoon," said Charles, standing behind her. "He'll come back once a week to teach you how to tend it."

She turned to face him. He was beaming, obviously pleased with himself.

"How on earth did you know?"

"You mentioned something once in conversation about liking the way bonsai looked. I thought it might make a nice surprise. It's our six-month anniversary, after all."

"So it is," she murmured, embarrassed at having forgotten. "I didn't get you anything, I'm afraid."

"The look on your face just now was enough."

Incredible. He had taken a stray remark, something said in passing so long ago she didn't even remember it, and somehow managed to give her exactly what she wanted. What's more, it wasn't the first time he had done so. All she need do was express the mildest interest in something and he would go to elaborate lengths to get it for her. He was so attentive, so eager to please her, that at times she felt sick with guilt. Until she reminded herself of just how happy she'd made him.

It wasn't really valentining if it didn't hurt anyone. It didn't matter that she had an ulterior motive. What mattered was that they both gained something from the arrangement. She took great pains to ensure that he did.

He wanted a committed monogamy, so she'd given up the casual relationships with other men. He wanted an emotionally deep connection, so she'd confided in him about her past. He wanted a relationship of equals, so she compromised and stood her ground in reasonably alternating intervals. Whatever he thought he saw in her, she became. She became it so thoroughly, she wasn't altogether sure she hadn't already been that person in the first place.

"You're too good to me," she said, and touched her lips to his.

No, it wasn't really valentining if both parties gained from the relationship. And sometimes, those gains took unexpected forms.

***

Paul took a swallow of coffee and immediately wished he'd opted for the tea. In an effort to be accommodating to their idea of Western tastes, his hosts had offered him some sort of powdered instant dreck that came in paper tubes. With sugar and so-called creamer pre-added, it was sweet to the point of hurting his teeth, and after tasting it he doubted any real coffee was included in the ingredients. But the jetlag from the flight to Beijing had given him a ferocious headache, so he swirled the liquid around a few times in an effort to make it more palatable. It was useless: clumps of undissolved powder clung to the sides of the cup like sodden paste. Stifling a grimace of disgust, he gulped it down.

Across the table, General Lu glanced through the sheaf of documents Paul had given him. The fluorescent light reflected off the lenses of his square, wire-framed glasses. The pages rustled, sheet by sheet, until he set them aside and stroked his chin in thought.

"This information is not credible," he said. "Red Cell has no history of activity in China."

"It's a new development, certainly," Paul answered. "But I wouldn't be here if we didn't take it very seriously."

Lu made a skeptical face. "You might have many reasons to be here. Why should I trust you?"

"Because you can't afford not to. If Red Cell succeeds in assassinating Gorbachev while he's visiting China, and you could have stopped it, well, I hate to think might happen to your career." Paul shook his head. "Forget your career. I hate to think what might happen to you _personally_. To your family. It won't be pretty."

The line creasing Lu's forehead deepened. Paul could tell he was wavering. He just needed one more little push.

"We're here to help," Paul said. "To share resources for our mutual benefit." He leaned forward in an effort to convey chummy sincerity. "Think about the long term. You can help your country _and_ yourself. What could be better than that?"

Lu didn't answer, but the tension in his posture eased. He reached for a pack of cigarettes, withdrew one and put it between his lips, and held out the pack to Paul. Paul accepted gratefully.

They smoked amiably for a few moments, and Paul took the opportunity to examine the other man more thoroughly. He liked what he saw. The spotless uniform and polished buttons spoke of discipline and self-confidence. The fluent command of English suggested sophistication and a talent for diplomacy. But the general was no mere paper pusher. Paul had done some background digging prior to the meeting: from a peasant family, Lu had worked his way up the military chain of command through sheer guts and tenacity. Even more important, however, he had the reputation of being bureaucratically astute. He knew whom to flatter, whom to bribe, whom to threaten, and whom to ignore. He was, in short, a man who was going places -- and therefore the perfect person to cultivate. Not for Section, although it was Section business that had brought the two men together. No, Paul intended to keep this resource to himself.

For the past two years, Paul had been consolidating a network of just such men: rising leaders, all of them competent, pragmatic, and willing to look objectively at the world. Adrian, unwittingly, had given him the perfect opportunity to do this. He had survived his demotion to Level One -- humiliated but unscathed -- and Adrian, true to her word, had reinstated him after six months. However, he never regained the same level of authority. Instead, Adrian steered him away from most fieldwork and sent him off on glorified errands, cultivating "relationships" with sister intelligence organizations.

Adrian appeared to think it was a punishment. In reality, it was the best education he'd had since he joined Section. Meeting his counterparts the world over forced him to rethink the simplistic equation of good guys versus terrorists, of West versus East. Those categories were meaningless: fairytales for a public raised on cop shows and action movies. In reality, the battle was much more insidious, pitting the forces of chaos against the forces of order. To his surprise, he was learning that the defenders of order could be found in every nation and across the entire political spectrum. He intended to gather and lead them.

For now, his networking was entirely social. In the future, he'd build his empire with these men.

Lu stubbed out his cigarette. "I still don't trust you," he said. "But I will grant Section One limited access to Beijing during Gorbachev's visit. You can pose as journalists. We will share intelligence and cooperate on security. If we decide it is helpful, we may ask you to assist in a joint operation to terminate Red Cell operatives. But that is all. If we catch you engaging in any espionage, your people will be executed on the spot."

"That sounds fair." Paul grinned. Of course, their operatives would engage in espionage anyway, but that was all part of the game, and both men knew it.

Paul reached across the table to shake Lu's hand -- then stopped short when the door burst open. A thin-faced man in a major's uniform hurried inside. Lu looked annoyed at the interruption, but when the major whispered in his ear, his expression turned suddenly grave.

"I'm sorry," Lu said, rising to his feet, "but I must cut this short. I've received some urgent news."


	25. Chapter 25

In Section that morning, there was simultaneously too much for Adrian to do and yet nothing at all going on of any genuine consequence. She reviewed reports, assigned follow-up, approved profiles, authorized payments -- all of it with the detached indifference of the tepid bureaucrats she had always despised. For a change of scenery more than from any conviction about the urgency of the task, she finally left her office at noon to go speak with one of the team leaders about an upcoming mission in Prague.

Rounding a corner, she spotted Paul at the far end of the corridor, engrossed in a conversation with an operative from DRV. If she recalled correctly, he was just back from China on one of his little junkets. Normally, she wouldn't bother debriefing him in person, but there was a rumor circulating that he might be able to verify.

"Paul," she called out. "A moment of your time, please."

He handed a file folder to the other operative and walked down the hallway to join her.

"I see you've made the arrangements in China," she said.

"Yes." He wrinkled his brow. "But there may be a complication."

"You mean Hu Yaobang? Rumor has it he had a heart attack."

He nodded. "He's not expected to recover."

"They're not canceling Gorbachev's visit?"

"No. Everything's going forward as scheduled."

"How very optimistic of them." Too optimistic. It was worrying. "They must realize what a problem this poses."

"It adds an additional element of instability to the situation. But it won't impede the mission against Red Cell."

"That's not what I meant."

Paul raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"Do you remember when Zhou Enlai died?" she asked.

He cocked his head in thought. "That was in.... What was the year again?"

"1976."

"Ah," he said, "I was still a Level One. Back-to-back missions without a lot of downtime. Or a lot of sleep, for that matter. If it didn't impact my work directly, I didn't have the time to pay attention."

"Has it been that long?" She remembered it so clearly. He was young and energetic and the most committed recruit she'd ever seen. Somehow along the way he'd become a jaded cynic. Such a waste. "Zhou's funeral became an opportunity for the public to protest the ruling regime," she explained. "There were mass marches, political poster campaigns. It was the beginning of the end for the Gang of Four." She arched an eyebrow. "Surely that rings a bell? Or were you too busy romancing lonely secretaries at the Romanian embassy that year?"

"I do remember," he said. "Although those secretaries left me pretty exhausted, now that you mention it." He broke out into a broad smile, and she couldn't help but respond in kind. Cynic or not, he still possessed a certain wry charm.

"In any event," she said, "something similar could happen again. There's a great deal of dissatisfaction simmering under the surface."

Paul shrugged. "Possibly." He seemed utterly indifferent to the prospect.

His lack of interest fascinated her. In the old days -- the time they were just reminiscing about, in fact -- he would have been thrilled at the prospect of the weakening of a communist regime like this one. He would have come pounding on her office door with some half-cocked scheme to aid the dissidents. Something bold, aggressive, and quite thoroughly mad, like assassinating--

_Like assassinating hardliners who stood in the way of reform._ She caught her breath in shock at the thought.

The idea both excited and appalled her. Section One wasn't authorized to interfere in the internal governance of nations: the Council had made that quite clear from the very beginning. But then if the Sections were to be the ugly stepsister of Center, what did she care about hewing to authority?

This was an opportunity to free millions from despotism. And wasn't that the reason she'd struggled to create the Sections in the first place? She'd dreamt of changing the world, not wasting her time with internal political jockeying.

She would do it. Let Phillip gnash his teeth at her irresponsibility. Let the Council admonish her like the naughty schoolgirl they obviously thought she was. Let them all do whatever they liked -- by the time they found out what she had done, she would have altered the very course of history. And there would be no going back.

"I'd like you to prepare a new profile," she said to Paul. "A secondary mission while you're in China."

"The objective?"

"To eliminate key conservatives on the Politburo. A few well-time accidents, perhaps. We'll tip the balance towards a Chinese version of glasnost."

He blinked. "Are you sure that's wise?" he asked. "You could be unleashing something you can't control."

His face filled with that same uncomprehending look she always saw in Phillip. How disappointing. Whatever Paul's other failings, she would have expected him to appreciate such a bold gamble. Unfortunately, she needed access to his contacts within the Chinese military. On such short notice, there was no time to get another operative up to speed before the opportunity passed. She would have to rely on him, committed or not.

"I believe I've given you an order," she said. "Since when is it your prerogative to question it?"

He stared at her blankly. She'd never noticed how reptilian his eyes were before. Then his mouth twitched and he gave her a nod. "My apologies. I'll get right on it."

***

Twirling the room key in his hand, Paul stepped inside the hotel's ancient-looking elevator. He pressed the button for the fifth floor. There was a disconcerting jolt and then the whir of the cable as the elevator began its ascent. It traveled excruciatingly slowly. By the time it finally passed the fourth floor, Paul sighed in annoyance. He should have just taken the stairs, dark and narrow as they were, rather than bothering with this museum piece of equipment.

With another sharp bounce, the elevator halted. Paul exited and made his way down the corridor; the floor creaked underneath the frayed carpet as he trod. He found Room 5G at the very end. From the room opposite, he heard a man groaning. He smirked to himself. Someone else paying by the hour, no doubt.

When he entered the room, he was relieved to see it at least looked clean, albeit the size of a linen closet. He draped his jacket over the back of a chair, sat on the edge of the bed, and lit a cigarette to wait.

It was a clever idea of Madeline's; he had to give her credit. Every week or so, they met in one of these dingy, out-of-the-way hotels just outside the red-light district in order to strategize in private. If anyone from Section trailed them, it would appear that they were simply engaged in the most ordinary -- even pedestrian -- of sins: a married woman, cheating on her husband with a coworker.

It was the perfect cover, really -- something he hadn't properly appreciated when Madeline first announced her plan to marry Charles. Now, he more than appreciated it. In fact, he had improved upon it. It was his suggestion, after all, that they actually go through with the adultery, and in his opinion that was the crowning touch. He had challenged Madeline: what if they were interrogated? If they made the scenario real, they could pass even a lie detector test with ease.

To his surprise, Madeline didn't resist. Instead, she readily agreed. A little too readily, in fact. She seemed strangely enthusiastic during their trysts, revealing a side of herself he'd never seen during their prior relationship. Then, their passion had been intense, but also tender. This, though -- this was something darker. Hungrier. Maybe even angrier. As if they'd given themselves free reign because it no longer mattered if they hurt each other. Or even because hurting each other was the point.

He supposed it should have disturbed him. He'd be better off, he knew, with a woman who didn't insist on games, on convoluted excuses, on being with him only when she didn't truly have to belong to him -- on being with him only when she could claim it was in the line of duty and therefore disclaim all responsibility.

Then again, "better off" was boring. And he couldn't stand boring.

However, there wasn't time to dwell on that now. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. Where the hell was she? As if the very strength of his exasperation reached out and plucked her out of the ether, the door opened.

She dropped her sunglasses and scarf on the bureau. She approached him with that coy smile of hers, but then she stopped and cocked her head, frowning.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Adrian," he replied. "She has to go."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. Why else do you think we're here?"

"No. I mean she has to go _now_."

Even in the yellowish cast of the single overhead light, he could see her pale. "We're not ready."

"I don't care." He stood and began to pace. "She's finally lost it. If I don't act now, then I don't _deserve_ the leadership."

She crossed her arms. "If we act unilaterally, George may not support us. He wants to control the timetable."

"Too bad for him." He scowled. "I have more support on the outside than he might think."

She looked away. From the subtle tension in her expression he could tell she was reluctant. That was good. Far more than she knew, he valued her caution, her meticulous preparation, her almost compulsive need to think things through. Most of all, however, he valued her ability to recognize when she needed to stop doing all those things and just let him make a decision.

She looked back at him again, and the trace of a smile that lightened her face signaled her acquiescence. "We'll probably fail, you know." The words were serious, but the voice teasing.

He grinned. "Probably." He moved toward her and cupped her face in his hand. "Does it matter?"

"No." She held his gaze without blinking. "It doesn't matter."

***

"This is unacceptable." George's voice sounded even more rasping than usual. Madeline couldn't tell how much of that was due to the scrambler she'd attached to the payphone receiver, and how much was due to the fact that he was most likely furious. She had an uncomfortable feeling that it was mostly the latter.

"Paul's responding to Adrian's reckless behavior." To her surprise and relief, her own voice sounded steady despite the fact that her heart was racing fast enough to make her somewhat lightheaded. "It isn't an unexpected development. There was always the danger that she'd do something like this. Isn't that why you planned her overthrow in the first place?"

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the static-tinged sound of breathing. Cautiously, she glanced over her shoulder and inspected her surroundings. Only a few blocks from the hotel where she'd met Paul, the payphone wasn't located in the most pleasant of neighborhoods. On the one hand, it meant she was unlikely to run into anyone she knew. But it also meant there were distractions she needed to pay attention to. A few meters away, for example, an emaciated man paced anxiously back and forth, shooting her furtive glances. Judging by the marks on his arms, she assumed he was looking to score a fix. He didn't seem to be eavesdropping, but she gave him a hard look anyway just to warn him off.

Finally, George spoke again. "She still has supporters at higher levels. This is going to be a problem."

Of course it was going to be a problem. George hardly needed to tell her that. After all, he wasn't the one facing near-certain cancellation. But Paul had made his choice, and it was now her role to put a positive face on it. They would avoid disaster because they _had_ to. It didn't matter how unlikely success was, because no other outcomes were acceptable.

"Adrian's deliberately inciting unrest in a country that possesses nuclear weapons," she said. It pleased her how glibly the optimistic rationalizations flowed from her tongue. If George noticed her wavering, even a little, he'd demand that they call things off. And that was something she knew Paul would never do. "Surely that's enough to justify her removal."

George laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "Don't underestimate how convincing she can be when she launches into a speech about democracy and progress. She can orate like Winston Churchill once she gets going."

"Then we'll have to--"

"Quiet! I'm thinking. Give me a moment."

She blinked at the interruption and fell silent. Down the sidewalk, the addict had found a seller. When he hurried off with his purchase, the dealer strolled toward Madeline. She opened her jacket just enough to flash her pistol, and the man stopped short. "Keuf," he snarled with a hint of menace, but he backed away nevertheless.

"All right," said George, and there was a new-found resignation in his voice that dampened his prior anger. "Here's what you must do. Open up a few bank accounts in her name. Switzerland, the Caymans, it doesn't matter. Set up a few more in Hong Kong in the name of some Taiwanese Nationalist organizations. Backdate everything and create a money trail from the latter to the former over, say, the past six months. Plant traces of the transactions in Section's system. When Paul seizes control, he can "discover" this data and present it as evidence against her. It's one thing if she's making rash decisions out of some ideological commitment, but quite another if she's being bought off. Even her supporters won't approve of that."

Madeline frowned. "She'll point out it's a forgery. Not to mention it's completely out of character. No one's going to believe it of her."

"Then you'd better make it look good," he snapped, and hung up.

She stood there for a moment holding the receiver, her eyes closed. Then she sighed, detached the scrambler, and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

Time to put a positive face on yet another impossible task. It was beginning to become a way of life.

***

With a sharp crack, the white ball struck the red one. George watched through the haze of smoke as the red ball rolled toward the pocket and dropped in.

"Well done," he said to Phillip in a loud voice, although the sentiment was only halfhearted.

Phillip walked around the table and lined up his cue again. "Green," he called.

George took a puff on his cigar and waited while Phillip fussed over the angle. He'd gone through two Dunhills already and his head was starting to throb, but the ritualized inhalations and exhalations helped keep his anxiety contained -- just barely.

After a hastily-arranged flight to England, George had been baffled to find himself ushered into Phillip's game room. They'd been playing snooker for nearly ninety minutes without once broaching the topic of the crisis they faced, and Phillip's determined obliviousness was starting to drive George mad.

Phillip finished his turn and George picked up his cue. He struck the black ball.

"Damn it," he muttered.

"Why so dour?" asked Phillip. He gave George a jovial clap on the back, and George fought off the urge to flinch. "It's just a game. We're not even playing for money."

George set his cue down and returned to the cigar. _Inhale. Exhale._ "Quite right," he said. "I'm just a bit preoccupied by the bad news I brought you."

"Bad news?" Phillip looked at George as if he'd broken into a sudden fit of glossolalia. "It's anything _but_ bad news. It's a cause to celebrate."

George stared at Phillip in disbelief. How on earth could this turn of events be construed as anything but dire? Was Phillip in his right mind? Had he been drinking? There had been rumors, actually, of an unstable tendency in that regard. Stories of parties, gambling and women of ill repute. A few people even whispered about bastard children scattered around the globe like mementos. George had always dismissed such gossip as nonsense. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to do so, if Phillip's irrational reaction now was any indication.

Should he even try to reason with the man? It might be pointless, but then again it couldn't possibly hurt. "We need more time to gather influence on the Council," he explained. "You said so yourself."

Phillip shrugged. "I've changed my mind. This little uprising will appear completely spontaneous. It's far more effective that way. Adrian will be swept aside and all of our warnings to the Council will look prescient."

With that, Phillip aimed his cue and potted another red ball. His hands were steady. Maybe he hadn't been drinking after all. He was just basking in the knowledge that he -- unlike everyone else involved -- had nothing to lose. The mutineers risked losing their lives; George risked losing the woman he loved if she ever discovered his betrayal; but what risk did Phillip face? None whatsoever. No wonder he was so bloody cheerful. George would be too if he could get other people do all his dirty work for him.

"There's still the matter of her replacement," he said, deciding to change the subject.

Phillip glanced over. "I'm not sure I follow." There was a tinge of mockery in his voice and George didn't quite know what to make of it.

"We need to recommend her successor to the Council. I've given it a great deal of thought and believe I've identified an appropriate candidate."

"But her successor will already be in place."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Paul Wolfe."

George fumbled his cigar; several chunks of ash fell on Phillip's Persian carpet. "You told me you were opposed to allowing the coup leader to remain on as leader. Sets a bad precedent, if I remember your phrasing correctly."

"Did I say that?" Phillip chuckled. "I should really learn to be less hasty in my speech. If Paul has the sense to oppose Adrian in this misadventure of hers, he might have what it takes to run the place. At least for the time being. The long term, of course, is another matter entirely."

"You haven't met the man," George protested. "I have. It will be a constant battle to keep him under control. Why, he's another Adrian, except without the good breeding."

"Without the good breeding? Oh, my." Phillip rolled his eyes. "Heaven forbid the leader of Section One use the wrong fork for dessert."

There was no point engaging in a battle of sarcasm with Phillip -- the man was obviously a master of the art. Still, this couldn't go unchallenged. If Paul succeeded Adrian as chief of Section One, they'd be worse off than before they started. Why couldn't Phillip see that?

"I was going to recommend Madeline," said George. "She's highly capable. And considerably more reliable."

"She's also your protégé, isn't she?" Phillip asked pointedly.

"She worked for me in Section Two, if that's what you mean." When Phillip began to make a tutting sound, George added, "Yes, I know her well. That's how I know she's qualified."

"George, old boy, really. I'm not going to allow you to fill all the top positions with your cronies." Phillip's tone was biting. "Mind you, I don't especially trust -- or even like -- Paul. But you need a bit of rivalry to keep you honest. I think he'll do quite well on that score." There was another crack as Phillip potted the final red ball. "Speaking of scores," he said, his lip curling in triumph, "I believe I'm in the lead."


	26. Chapter 26

When the bell sounded at the front door, Charles set aside the stack of paperwork in relief. He'd been waiting several hours for a delivery of the latest satellite reconnaissance from the Urals; if it didn't arrive soon, the prospect of staying up all night to finish the tactical guidelines was looming.

"Thank God," he said to himself as he crossed the room to answer the door. But when he pulled it open, the man standing outside was no DRV messenger.

"Good evening," said George.

"Sir." Charles stared dumbly for a moment, then he managed to recover. "Please, come in."

George stepped past Charles and strolled into the apartment. He walked slowly, with an oddly proprietary air, like an appraiser cataloguing the contents of the residence for inventory.

He paused an especially long time to examine a bronze statuette on a table. "Isis?"

"Nephthys," Charles corrected. "Goddess of the dead." He closed the door and joined George by the table. "It was a gift from my wife."

"It's exquisite." George ran a finger along the hieroglyphics inscribed on the base. "It must be worth a fortune."

Charles shook his head. "It's a reproduction. Egypt's been plundered of antiquities enough as it is without my contributing to the problem."

At that, George seemed to lose interest. He proceeded into the living room and sat in one of the chairs.

"Can I offer you something?" asked Charles.

"No."

The clock on the mantel struck the hour. The chimes rang loudly, each note magnifying the silence that hung between the two men. George waited for it to finish, then he crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair.

"Once upon a time," he drawled, "you told me that you'd do whatever was necessary to prevent Paul Wolfe from taking over Section One." He stared at Charles, unblinking. "Do you still feel that way?"

Charles hadn't forgotten that conversation, but it wasn't from lack of trying. Going to George had been a sign of weakness, of a lapse in self-confidence, of anger born from jealousy. The memory of it embarrassed him.

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "Paul fell out of favor long ago."

"A man can be out of favor one day," said George, "and back in again the next."

George's face was completely blank, but he filled his speech with lingering, ambiguous pauses. Charles felt himself grow uneasy.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"That you open your eyes and pay attention to what's going on around you." George's tone sharpened. "That you be prepared to stand up and protect the things you care about."

Charles stiffened. Was this a warning? A challenge? A threat?

"You sound like you have something particular in mind."

"I didn't say that." George smiled. A half-smile, one that merely lifted one side of his mouth, as if it took too much energy to bother with the rest. "It's just friendly advice." He stood. "I don't have time to stay and chat, however. I was on my way to an appointment nearby."

Heading to the door, he stopped again by the statuette of Nephthys.

"For a fake, it's very convincing." He turned to look back at Charles. "By the way, how is your wife?"

Charles blinked at the change of subject. "Quite well, thank you."

There was another half smile. "Be sure to give her my regards."

"I will."

Charles couldn't close the door fast enough.

***

Near the front of the café, a group of women shrieked with laughter. Distracted, Madeline glanced up from her table at the rear and sighed. When the noise subsided to tolerable levels, she took a sip of her Kir and returned to reading the data printouts from Accommodations. She'd finished sixty-seven pages of detailed surveillance on the computer specialists in Systems. So far, all of it useless. She began to massage her temples.

She heard a cigarette lighter flick open. The pungent smell of Gitanes drifted across the table. She looked up at her companion; this was the third cigarette Eduard had lit in forty minutes. She hadn't told him how critical the information she'd asked for was, but he clearly sensed something: his nervousness amplified hers and rebounded back again.

"They're rather well-behaved little drones, aren't they?" he said, attempting jocularity.

"So it seems."

"A bit of drug use here and there, but that's not much to work with."

"No," she agreed.

She had to find something better. She was going to try and persuade someone to plant data in the computer archives to frame Adrian -- a cancelable offense if there ever was one -- and she would need far more than petty crimes as blackmail material. Unfortunately, Jules seemed to have a knack for selecting personnel with a rather limited imagination for misbehavior. Profound laziness and slacking off on the job was about as far as most of them went. How Systems managed to function was the real mystery. Once Adrian was gone, Madeline would have to get rid of all of them.

"There is one other thing I brought along," said Eduard, but he sounded doubtful.

"Yes?"

"She's not in Systems herself, but take a look at this."

He handed Madeline another printout: Mireille Martin, age 45, chief instructor in the Level 16 research facility. A child psychologist by training, recruited after a conviction for forging her employer's signature on handful of checks. A fumbling amateur as a criminal, from what it appeared. Madeline scanned the pages but saw nothing of interest.

"What about her?"

"Do you see on page three? She received a housing upgrade a few years ago that she wasn't entitled to."

Madeline flipped to the page and located the entry. "She bribed someone in your department?"

"She most certainly did not." Eduard sniffed in offense. "That approval code is mine. I think I would remember if someone bribed me."

"Hmm. Interesting."

"Very." Eduard grinned. "There are some other transactions that look suspicious, too. Credit cards, other perks." He reached across the table to point out several entries. "I don't know how she did it, but she seems to have broken into the IT system at multiple access points. Maybe she's the person you're looking for."

"Maybe."

It was puzzling. Martin didn't fit the profile -- by training or personality type -- of someone capable of something so sophisticated. Perhaps it would turn out to be a false lead, and there was an innocent explanation for the anomalies in her record. Still, it was worth following up on.

Madeline drained the rest of her glass and signaled for the waiter. False lead or not, Eduard deserved another drink for his diligence.

Tonight, they could relax. Tomorrow, Madeline would pay a visit to Mireille Martin.

***

When Lisa passed through the exit from Section, a blast of sunlight hit her directly in the face. She blinked in surprise and fumbled for her sunglasses. She'd forgotten it was the middle of the afternoon -- too many time zone changes and too much time in dimly-lit transport planes the past few days. She no longer knew what season it was, much less what time of day.

She should have been used to the constant schedule upheavals by now. But she wasn't. If anything, it got harder to adjust to each passing year. She'd get back from a mission so exhausted she could barely sit up, yet she'd wind up lying in bed for hours with her eyes wide open. Some ops swore by sleeping pills; others resorted to alcohol -- she resisted using either, but the lack of proper rest was taking a slow toll on her health. Fatigue meant slow reflexes; slow reflexes meant mistakes; and mistakes meant something she didn't want to think about.

The smell of freshly-made pommes frites wafted out of a nearby restaurant. She could almost taste them -- they'd be salty and greasy and wonderfully crisp, and oh God, she was ravenous. She stopped to check if she had enough cash in her wallet. She might not be able to sleep, but eating was one thing she could do any hour of the day or night.

Bingo! Amidst the crumpled yen and rupiah notes, she had fifteen francs. Those pommes frites were hers.

"Hey, Lisa," called a voice from behind her.

Crap. She wasn't two blocks away from Section and they were already reeling her back in. Another oh-so-urgent mission that would fling her into yet another time zone before she could even remember which one she'd just come from.

She wiped her face clean of disappointment before she turned around. It was Madeline, dressed in a wool overcoat that probably cost more than Lisa spent on clothes in a decade. This might not be such bad news after all. Madeline didn't usually hand out work assignments to the field ops. Most likely she was just going to remind Lisa to stop in for her semi-annual performance review, or fill out some bullshit report, or engage in one of the other pointless wastes of time that Madeline now presided over in her capacity as Adrian's most skilled dispenser of red tape. Lisa could nod and say, "yeah, yeah," and escape in thirty seconds, back to those pommes frites that were causing the empty core of her stomach to rumble audibly.

"What is it?" she asked when Madeline had caught up with her.

"Are you on your way home?"

"Yeah. I just got back from Jakarta, and I'm wiped out."

"I'll walk with you to the metro, then," Madeline said. "I'm headed that direction."

Lisa gave one last sad look at the restaurant that she wasn't going to get to go into after all. "Sure."

As they walked, Madeline kept up a cheerful patter of small talk. Listening to it, Lisa remembered why she had once liked her so much. When Madeline lavished her attention on someone, she could make him or her feel like the most fascinating person on the planet. When they first knew each other, Lisa had been taken in by it. Later, she dismissed it as a cynical charade. But that wasn't quite right, either. It had taken a long time before Lisa finally figured it out: Madeline _was_ sincerely interested in people. She just didn't _care_ about them. Until she met Madeline, Lisa hadn't realized there could be a distinction.

"Here's my stop," said Lisa, relieved. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Her mind was already wandering, imagining the prospect of pommes frites at the café down the block from her apartment, when Madeline touched her arm.

"You know, Lisa, I owe you an apology."

Lisa frowned. "Um, for what?"

"All this time, you kept telling me how good you were with computers. I'm afraid I didn't take you seriously. I assumed you were exaggerating because you wanted a transfer out of the field. That was wrong of me."

"Oh, wow." Lisa laughed. This wasn't what she had expected at all. In fact, it was a pretty decent thing of Madeline to do. She felt a minor twinge of guilt for her cynical assessment of the woman a moment before. "Look, that's okay. You had no reason to believe me. I'm not offended."

"Good." Madeline smiled brightly. "I was especially impressed when Mireille told about all the things you'd helped her with."

"When…wait…when what?"

Lisa hadn't heard that right. She _couldn't_ have heard that right. If she'd heard that right, she was dead.

Madeline's smile didn't waver. Lisa gaped, her brain stuttering incoherent thoughts until she realized that yes, she had indeed heard that right.

Mireille had sold her out.

"I'll kill her," Lisa said through gritted teeth.

"Don't blame Mireille. I didn't give her a choice."

No. Of course she hadn't. What chance would Mireille have had against Section One's interrogator-in-chief? Lisa's anger deflated, along with what was left of her energy. Her legs didn't seem to want to support her weight anymore. She reached for the wall of a nearby shop to steady herself and slumped against it.

"So, now what?" she asked. "Are you going to turn me in? Score some more brownie points with Adrian? You're getting pretty good at that these days."

"Not at all." If Madeline felt stung by the insult, she didn't show it. She just looked Lisa up and down, her smile warm and conspiratorial. "I'm here to present you with an opportunity."

"Yeah. Right." An opportunity. Leave it to Madeline to resort to a euphemism instead of just saying, _I own you_. Lisa sighed in defeat. "What do you want?"

"Actually, it's about what _you_ want. That transfer to Systems? I can arrange for that. In fact, when we're finished, you might just have Jules's job."

"When we're finished with what?"

"Why, destroying Adrian, of course."

***

"The profile is superb," said Adrian. "Very fine work, Paul."

"Thank you."

Paul stood at attention in Adrian's office, hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight and confident. He hadn't displayed such a spit-and-polish military bearing in more time than Adrian could remember. It suited him. He looked proud, focused, like someone who possessed not just a clear purpose but also a well-thought-out plan to achieve it. Adrian smiled to herself: it seemed that by giving him a real assignment instead of the make-work errands she'd sent him on over the past few years, she'd managed to shake him out of his cynical complacency a bit.

Perhaps he wasn't an entirely lost cause after all.

"How quickly can we implement this?" she asked.

"I've set a target date of one week before Gorbachev's arrival. That way it will have the maximum impact."

"Very good. Prepare your team."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed," she said, and she watched as he turned and walked away.

She reached for the telephone and began to dial George's number. She hesitated, finger poised over the final digit. She was on the verge of her greatest achievement, and she wanted nothing more than to share the news with the one person who had been her companion down the long, hard road she'd traveled. George alone would truly understand the enormity of what she was about to do; he alone would appreciate the genius of its scope.

However, there was his well-being to consider. That fool Phillip -- and those small-minded cowards on the Council -- would retaliate, she was quite certain. She had finally seen them for what they were. They had no principles, no vision beyond protecting the status quo and their own comfortable place within it. They didn't understand that the path of history was fraught with risk, that human achievement came at a cost, and that sometimes that cost was the blood of innocents. When China exploded, so would the tottering edifice of the Soviet Union, and the shockwaves would cascade throughout the world in a chain reaction, the pent-up desire for freedom unleashed like a string of atomic blasts. They wouldn't see that as progress. All they would see was chaos. Disruption. Danger. After all, if the world turned upside-down, who knew what their place would be in it?

Once she set the initial events in motion, it would all be unstoppable. But that didn't mean they wouldn't attack her afterwards, lashing out in shortsighted fury. Telling George in advance would make him complicit. And he'd then be destroyed along with her. She couldn't do that. Someone -- someone who understood -- needed to survive to carry on her legacy. He was the only one she trusted enough to do that.

She set down the telephone receiver. She would bear this burden alone. When she thought about the ultimate reward, it didn't seem so heavy after all.


	27. Chapter 27

Lisa cracked her knuckles and began typing at a rapid-fire pace. She executed commands, tried out others, and as she read the lines on the screen she gradually relaxed and shook off her nervousness. On the desk beside her sat a disk containing the files Madeline wanted her to plant. She tried not to look at it too often; every time she did, it just reminded her how utterly insane a mess she'd allowed herself to be dragged into.

Framing Adrian. Jesus. Lisa thought she'd been living on the edge just nosing around classified research projects, but her risk-taking had nothing on Madeline. Madeline was actually going to take the old bitch down. That took one hell of a nerve just to think about, much less dare try. And now Lisa was in the thick of it. Not exactly by choice, either. While Madeline had framed her request as an opportunity for Lisa -- both for personal advancement and a bit of revenge -- Lisa had the distinct impression that "no" wasn't going to be an acceptable answer. She didn't really want to find out what would happen if she did something Madeline found unacceptable, because Madeline had this chilly look, even when she was smiling, that made Lisa feel like the living, breathing definition of "expendable."

_Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Lisa, you dummy,_ she thought. She swallowed hard. _Let's get this over with._

The main objective was to crack Adrian's password so as to save these files under her login. But it wasn't just a matter of passwords: there was an entire login sequence for the upper echelons of Section's management designed to thwart security breaches. Madeline had supplied Lisa with the sequence for George's login. God only knew how she managed to get that -- probably best not to ask -- and Lisa had been able to use it as a model to emulate what would probably -- probably! -- work for Adrian. One last line of the sequence to go. She typed some more, hit the enter key, and ta da! She was logged in as Adrian.

_I am Queen of the Freaking Universe!_ She felt like pumping her fist, but settled for a whispered "Yes!" instead.

Okay. All she had to do was pop that disk in, download the files to a selection of appropriate locations, backdate them convincingly, clean up her tracks, and log the hell off before she got caught.

So where should she dump these things? She opened a few directories and eliminated them from consideration. "Garbage, garbage, garbage," she muttered to herself as she opened and closed a series of folders and files. Sighing, she scanned their names and tried to guess their contents. "Projects" -- that might be something. Or wait, maybe "Financial." She opened that one and scrolled through the list of files -- and then stopped abruptly.

One of the subdirectories was called "Centre." Centre, as in the source of all those instructions and directives regarding her son. Centre, as in the mysterious entity she'd spent months trying to track down. Finally at her fingertips.

Madeline and her grandiose coup attempt could wait a few goddam minutes. Lisa wasn't going to get this close to the answer and not take a look.

Her skin hot with anticipation, she selected the subdirectory. She pressed the enter key. In an instant, the screen began flashing "ACCESS DENIED. SECURITY VIOLATION."

"Fuck," she said aloud. She struck keys desperately, trying to exit, trying to shut down, but she'd lost control of the terminal. Panicking, she manually powered the computer off.

She sat there, staring ahead but not really seeing anything, for what could have been thirty seconds -- or what could have been an hour. And then she ran to the restroom and began to vomit.

***

There wasn't a knock or even a discernable noise, but Madeline nevertheless sensed a presence hovering behind her. She swung around in her chair to look. Lisa stood in the doorway to the office. Her face was pinched and pale.

The last time Madeline remembered seeing someone with an expression quite like that was right after an operative cut the wrong wire trying to defuse a bomb during Madeline's first year at Section One. Madeline managed to dive behind a wall for cover; the operative who cut the wire, however, became human shrapnel seconds later. Looking at Lisa, Madeline felt a rising urge to find another wall to crouch behind.

Lisa opened her mouth to speak, so Madeline held up a warning hand. She stood, grasped Lisa by the arm, and walked her briskly out of the office and down the corridor. There was a utility closet full of ventilation equipment around the corner. It was cramped and noisy, but it was also free of surveillance, so it would do.

Inside the closet, they could barely stand without touching. The physical proximity rendered Lisa's anxiety palpable, like a noxious miasma of fear. As if to ward it off, Madeline crossed her arms tightly and leaned back against the door. It vibrated with the hum of the nearby equipment.

"What's wrong?"

"I set off some sort of alarm." Even at a whisper, Lisa's voice nearly cracked. "The system locked me out."

"What kind of alarm?"

"How the hell should I know? It was flashing something about a security breach and everything just froze." Lisa covered her face with her hands. "I am so fucking dead."

What in God's name had Lisa done? From somewhere in the pit of Madeline's stomach, an eruption of fury seared her entire body. She had to clench her teeth to control it.

"I thought," she said, enunciating slowly -- glacially -- because if she allowed her rage to take over, she might just tear Lisa to pieces, "that you knew the system inside and out."

"I do! But I was sticking my nose into places I'd never gone before. I wasn't in the regular network. I was looking around for someplace good to plant the files."

"So you didn't plant them yet?"

"No. I didn't get the chance to." Lisa closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. "God, I'm so sorry."

Madeline unclenched her muscles, and the fury abated. If there was no evidence of what Lisa was doing, then there was nothing to implicate Madeline. Assuming Lisa could keep her mouth shut, at least.

"Do you have the disk?" Madeline asked.

"Yeah."

"Give it back to me."

Lisa complied, and Madeline slipped it into her jacket pocket.

"Now," said Madeline, "if Adrian tracks you down as the source of the breach -- and we don't know that she will -- I want you to confess."

"Excuse me?"

"Admit that you broke into the system. Spare yourself the unpleasantness of an interrogation." An interrogation that Madeline was likely to be the one conducting, in fact, but she refrained from pointing that out to Lisa. "But when you confess, just say that you were trying to find information about your son. Don't mention me or the disk. Don't even bring Jules or Mireille into it. Make it sound like you did everything all by yourself."

Lisa gave a snort of disbelieving laughter. "What, you want me to fall on my sword as a glorious martyr for your cause? I'm sorry, but I'm not exactly that committed."

"What if I give you an incentive?"

"Like what?" Lisa scoffed.

"Like freedom for your son." At Lisa's look of dumbstruck shock, Madeline smiled. "If we succeed in overthrowing Adrian, I can make it happen."

In the dimness of the closet, it took a moment before Madeline saw the tears streaming down Lisa's cheeks.

"All right," said Lisa, her voice choking, "you've got yourself a scapegoat." Then, unexpectedly, she seized Madeline in a hug. Her fingers dug painfully into Madeline's back. "Thank you," she whispered. Finally, she pulled away and glanced at her watch. "Oh, shit. I've got a mission heading out in less than an hour. We'll deal with this when I get back. If they don't drag me straight to Containment, that is."

***

After Lisa left, Madeline returned to her office and worked. She worked on large projects, then small, then trivial. With each task completed, she attacked the next with increased vigor. She worked for several hours straight without stopping even once to think about anything else. Work was calming, relaxing, comforting, even quite pleasant, and as long as she kept her focus trained strictly within its bounds, she didn't have to dwell on those things that were spiraling out of her control.

Like whether Adrian would trace the origin of the security breach. Like whether Lisa would keep her word and take the blame. Like whether Adrian would believe a word Lisa said. Or whether the whole plot was unraveling faster than Madeline could hope to stitch it back together.

There was nothing further Madeline could do at the moment to influence the outcomes of any of the above; hence, it was not a productive use of her time to think about those prospects. Instead, she reviewed reports, completed profiles, studied intelligence briefings and processed files from her inbox into her outbox, until she had cleared her desk of every single scrap of paper that could plausibly be construed as needing her attention.

It was then that the worries began drifting back.

She put her hand on her pocket. The disk was still there -- the one task she couldn't complete, didn't even know _how_ to complete. George had been emphatic about the importance of planting the false financial data. But what could she do? Lisa had failed, and even if her error escaped Adrian's detection, Madeline didn't dare trust her to try again. Should she try to do it herself? Turn to Jules in desperation? Or just tell George that it couldn't be done?

None of those were reasonable options.

A dull ache began to tighten along her neck and temples. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, then she rolled her shoulders to loosen the muscles. One crisis at a time. She could manage if she simply approached things in a rational manner. The more pressing concern was whether Lisa's mistake would expose the entire conspiracy. Madeline logged onto her computer and opened up the listing of current personnel deployment. There were no shifts in resources within Systems. No one in Specops assigned to meet Lisa's mission upon return. Nothing unusual at all.

Perhaps Lisa was worried over nothing. Why, there were probably attempted systems breaches by nosy operatives every single week. Knowing Jules, he'd bury this one -- especially if he realized who had caused it.

She needed to clear her head. She shut down her computer, pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet. A walk. That's what she would do. She could take a walk somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere. It didn't matter, so long as she could use the physical activity to trick her brain into thinking she had a purpose.

Without planning to, she found herself at the entrance to the cafeteria. That was as good a place as any. There would be tea, which would require steeping and stirring and adding lemon -- another ritual to perform while she did her best to shut her mind off.

A handful of operatives sat at the tables. Others wandered around clutching their trays; it wasn't mealtime, but there was always something available to alleviate the hunger pangs caused by round-the-clock shifts. Today, it appeared to be some sort of noodle soup. A man slurped loudly from his bowl as she passed by his table toward the urn of hot water.

There were two operatives pouring cream and sugar into their coffee at the counter nearby.

"The explosion came out of nowhere," said one of the operatives to the other. Terence, if Madeline remembered his name correctly. She'd just finished writing up his biannual psych evaluation. A kleptomaniac? No. That was someone else. "The mission was over and all the hostiles dead, and everybody thought it was all wrapped up," Terence continued. "It caught the team on egress. A big boom, and the building just went up like fireworks."

Madeline selected a cup from the rack and pulled the spigot on the urn. Steaming water began to fill the cup.

"So did anyone bite it?" asked the other operative.

"Just Lisa," said Terence.

It wasn't until she felt her fingers scald that Madeline realized the cup was overflowing. She dropped it with a smash.

***

"It's too convenient. It can't just be a coincidence." Madeline's grip on Paul's arm was tight. She leaned in and whispered, and he could feel her breath in his ear. "The mission was sabotaged. Someone must have known what she was doing."

Madeline didn't often give in to worry. But Paul could see it now, cracking open the seams of her customary imperturbability. It seeped out through the distracted expression in her eyes, through the rigid stance of her body, and it was beginning to infect him, too -- a cold prickling of dread crept from her hand, up his arm, to his chest.

My God, he didn't need this. She was supposed to be _helping_ him, not giving him more to deal with.

He pulled away from her grasp and began to pace. "You shouldn't have used her."

It sounded like an accusation, and it was intended as such. She reacted accordingly, a look of defensiveness tightening her face.

"Who else was there? No one in Systems is reliable."

"Then you shouldn't have bothered." He'd moved beyond accusation; this was a rebuke. "We don't need to frame Adrian."

"George seems to think so."

He gave her a long, disgusted stare. "I didn't know you held George's opinion in such high esteem."

No more accusations. No more rebukes. He'd thrown down a gauntlet. She couldn't keep pleasing everyone. There would come a time when she'd have to commit to him irrevocably, when she could no longer hide herself in that cloak of ambiguity she so loved to wear, when everyone would finally see exactly where she stood, once and for all. That time might not be now, but it would come. And she'd damned well better understand that. If she couldn't, then he _would_ cut her off. If she assumed that he wouldn't go that far -- if she took her place at his side for granted, counting on the strength of his romantic sentiment -- then she didn't understand him nearly as well as she thought she did. Nor did she understand the nature of their working relationship. Sure, they were a team. A partnership. But not of equals.

It never ceased to surprise him just how cold those brown eyes could look when she was angry.

"I'm simply being cautious," she said. "There's a lot to lose."

So now she'd resorted to explaining herself. That, he didn't mind. While still a form of disagreement, it also meant that she acknowledged -- at least implicitly -- that she _owed_ him an explanation. That was enough for now.

Satisfied, he cracked a smile. "Sometimes, Madeline, you have to stop calculating the odds and just throw the dice."

She said nothing. But she didn't need to. His point was made.

"I make my move tomorrow," he said. "If you can figure out a way to fix this before then, then fix it. If not...." He shrugged in a deliberate show of indifference. "We're going ahead, whether George likes it or not."


	28. Chapter 28

Lisa opened her eyes. A white ceiling. White walls. No windows, just a fluorescent light that flickered in the silence. She lay in a bed, in a flimsy hospital nightgown -- but this wasn't Medlab.

This wasn't Medlab, and judging by the solid steel door, she was a prisoner.

She sat upright. She had no memory of how she arrived here, wherever here was. She'd been in the warehouse, commencing egress, and then --

And then --

Her mind flailed helplessly, until finally it grasped a memory. Someone behind her, clamping over her mouth and nose with a cloth. An acrid smell. Choking. Then blackness.

And now here. In the custody of Section's enemies.

Her heart lurched in panic. She threw off the sheets and jumped from the bed -- to do what, she wasn't sure. The floor felt chilly beneath her bare feet.

She circled the room. It was empty but for the bed. There was no way to escape, and no means to defend herself. She could rig up a noose with the sheets, but where to hang it? Maybe she could get to the light fixture. She dragged the bed into the center of the room, stood on the mattress and reached, swaying on her toes, but she wasn't quite tall enough.

"Fuck," she said, and she fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

Then it occurred to her. Whoever was holding her captive hadn't strapped her down with restraints. They hadn't even roughed her up much, from what she could tell by the absence of bruises. She'd been left alone -- locked up, true enough -- in relative comfort. Certainly in better circumstances than Section provided for its prisoners. None of those poor bastards got pillows, that's for sure. She punched hers. Damn, it was even fluffy.

Maybe these people weren't going to torture her to a hideous screaming death after all. Maybe they'd at least give her a chance to talk first. Talking didn't seem like such a bad option, now that she thought about it. In fact, she kind of felt in the mood to spill her guts to someone. For the catharsis, if nothing else. And really, did she have anyone to be loyal to anymore?

Back at Section, after all, God only knew what had awaited her. A trip to the White Room. Swift cancellation, if she were lucky. Even if her mistake went undetected by Adrian, there had been something in Madeline's expression when Lisa confessed: a look of disgust, of cold malevolence that Adrian -- cruel as she was -- had never matched in all the years Lisa had known her.

Who was it, exactly, that Lisa had been helping? Adrian's regime was tyrannical, that went without saying, but was the alternative any better? Exchanging an autocratic monarchy for fascism wasn't necessarily a form of progress.

There was, however, Madeline's promise to release Seymour. Then again, promises were cheap. Lisa had no way to hold her to it. And if Lisa had learned anything over the past few years, it was that no one could be trusted.

That settled it. There was no reason to be loyal to Section, whoever was in charge. With the enemy, perhaps she had a chance at life. She had information they could find useful. She could bargain with them. In exchange, they could help her. Whoever the hell they were.

She fell back against the pillow and began to laugh.

***

"You know, I'm really not comfortable with this," said Mireille. She picked up a stack of papers from her desk, shuffled them to no apparent end, then set them down again. "I'm not supposed to give access to _anyone_."

"I have supervisory-level duties relating to R&amp;D," replied Madeline. "This project qualifies under that category. There's absolutely nothing improper about my being here." If she'd been sitting closer, she would have reached over and patted Mireille's arm; instead, she shifted into the most reassuring tone she could muster. "You don't need to worry."

"That's what you told me when I gave you Lisa Birkoff's name." Mireille stared at Madeline, stony-faced. "And look what happened to her."

"She died on a mission." When Mireille shook her head skeptically, Madeline added, "Lisa had a high-risk job. You know that."

"What I do know is that she talked to you, and now she's dead." Mireille's voice wavered, and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. "If I take you to see Seymour, maybe something will happen to him, too. Or to me!" She waved a dismissive hand. "I want nothing to do with whatever it is you're involved in."

Madeline stood from her chair. The attempt at reassurance wasn't working. Fine. She'd be blunt.

"You're in no position to dictate terms. You seem to be forgetting that I possess concrete evidence of your malfeasance that I can deliver to Adrian anytime I wish."

Mireille picked up the phone and held out the receiver. "Go ahead. Call her." She laughed. "Somehow, I think my "malfeasance," as you put it, has _nothing_ on yours."

Madeline looked at the telephone, then back at Mireille. Of all the times for Mireille to choose to stand on principle, why did it have to be less than twenty-four hours before Paul launched his mutiny? Madeline didn't have time to woo this woman, didn't have time for more elaborate methods of persuasion, didn't have time for any sort of finesse. This was her last opportunity to solve this problem, and Mireille and her fears couldn't stand in the way.

Mireille had switched off the surveillance in her office at the beginning of their conversation. There didn't appear to be anyone else within hearing distance. That made things simple. Madeline pulled out a gun from her jacket pocket and fired straight into Mireille's forehead. A spray of crimson drenched the wall. The telephone receiver clattered to the desk.

Obstacle removed. Crude, but efficient.

Madeline rounded the desk, shoved Mireille's slumped body out of the chair, and sat down. She hung up the beeping telephone and rummaged through the desk drawers until she found what she was looking for: a directory of the test subjects and their room assignments. She scanned down the list of entries. Seymour Birkoff: Room 11.

Madeline exited the office and locked the door behind her. She would have to have a few trusted allies within Housekeeping clean the blood and stash the body somewhere -- temporarily, at least. In another day, it wouldn't matter anymore.

In another day, nothing would matter anymore. In a sense, it was terrifying. In a sense, it was a tremendous relief.

Room 11 was at the farthest end of the hallway. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she eased it open.

"Seymour?"

No one responded, so she looked inside. There was a skinny young boy sprawled on a bed, headphones on, digging his hand into a bag of cookies.

She walked across the room and pulled off the headphones. He jumped and gaped at her. Crumbs dangled from his lower lip.

"Seymour Birkoff?"

"Yeah." He looked a bit dazed.

"I'm Madeline. Nice to meet you." She sat down next to him. She spotted a bloodstain on her skirt and folded her hands in her lap to hide it. She watched him for a bit, smiling warmly.

He alternated between sneaking glances at her and looking away, seemingly embarrassed. Eventually, he held out the bag of cookies.

"Want one?"

"No, thanks."

He set the bag on the bedside table.

"You like computer games, don't you?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Sure."

"I hear you're pretty good at them."

He straightened his shoulders. "I'm the best."

"Really? How would you like to show me?"

At this, his face lit up. "Okay."

She handed him the disk that Lisa had returned to her.

"The game's loaded on here?" he asked.

"Not exactly. There are some data files on that disk. The object of the game is to download them onto a computer network without getting caught."

"That sounds easy."

"The last person who tried couldn't do it."

"_I_ can." The determined look on his face startled her. Then it struck her how very much like his mother he looked, and she hesitated. He was a _child_. Entrusting him with such a dangerous task was beyond reckless. On the other hand, she'd run out of alternatives.

What was it Paul had said to her? Sometimes you just have to throw the dice.

"All right, then," she said, standing and offering him a hand, "let's give it a try."

***

Charles woke. The red glow of the clock on the nightstand said it was after three in the morning.

It was the third time he'd woken that night. Sadly, insomnia had become an all-too-familiar companion, ever since George's visit. Not that George had divulged anything, really. But the insinuations were maddening.

_A man can be out of favor one day, and back in again the next._ At first, Charles had assumed that George meant Paul could be back in favor with Adrian. But Charles saw no evidence of that. It was then that another one of George's remarks began to haunt him. _For a fake, it's very convincing. By the way, how's your wife?_

George couldn't have possibly intended to make that suggestion. The idea was absurd. Grossly offensive. And yet Charles hadn't been able to dismiss it from his mind. Paul had once, in fact, been very much in favor with Madeline. Was Charles so certain that it couldn't happen again? He didn't know. He didn't know, and the fact that he didn't know was what kept him up each night.

To his shame, he'd even resorted to tracking her whereabouts, searching through Section's records to see if he could lay his paranoia to rest. Instead, he had been vastly dismayed to discover that there was an inordinate amount of dark time. Time when she'd told Charles that she was working late, at a meeting, finishing a project -- and when she most certainly was doing none of those things.

She'd lied to him. She'd lied to him repeatedly, almost habitually -- and he hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to do about it.

With a sigh, he rolled over. The space next to him was empty. She'd been there earlier. Puzzled, he got up and walked out into the hallway.

A light shone from the living room. Following it, he found her sitting in a chair, her eyes closed. A teapot and cup sat on the table next to her, and a piano sonata played on the stereo. He could tell she was awake because her posture was too rigid for sleep; she seemed to be concentrating on every note as if following them was the most important thing in the world.

On the one hand, he never found her more beautiful than when she was laser-focused on something. On the other hand, it was like watching her from a distant mountaintop, a hundred miles between them.

He cleared his throat. She opened her eyes and smiled, and he changed his mind: no, he never found her more beautiful than when she smiled at him like that.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" she asked. "I tried to keep the volume low."

"No, not at all. I just wondered where you were."

Her smile faded. "I couldn't sleep."

"Something on your mind?" At that, she gave him a curious look, and he regretted saying it. Whatever his suspicions, he hadn't intended to blurt anything out. Not yet. Not like that. Not without thinking through the consequences.

The problem was that he couldn't face the consequences long enough to think them through.

She cocked her head to one side and frowned. "I suppose I have a lot on my mind. Sometimes it's hard to switch it off."

"I know the feeling." This time, it was his turn to give her a smile. He hoped she didn't notice it was a rueful one.

She sat quietly for a long time. He stood and watched her. On the stereo, the piano trilled brightly. Several minutes must have passed before she eventually spoke again.

"Do you trust me, Charles?"

The question took him aback. It was as if she'd read his mind. Or maybe as if she had a guilty conscience. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

"If I told you that there were things about me that you didn't know, things that I couldn't share with you, would you trust me enough to accept that? Or would you feel betrayed?

He _did_ feel betrayed. The feeling seized at his chest and burned the back of his throat. All he said, however, was, "Is this a rhetorical question?"

She didn't answer.

"Yes, I trust you," he said, and in a way he did, yet he also didn't, but he wanted to so badly that perhaps he could fool them both into believing it was true. "But," he added pointedly, compulsively, "I also trust that you won't hide things unnecessarily."

"I don't." There was something odd in her voice, a kind of fierce vehemence that made him inclined to believe her despite all his doubts.

She stood and went to the stereo, and she turned its volume up. Then she came over to where he was standing.

"Something's going to happen tomorrow," she said. "I want you to stay away from Section." She spoke in a low voice. Low enough, it occurred to him, that an eavesdropper wouldn't be able to make out what she was saying over the music.

She _had_ been hiding something. But it appeared that it was considerably more complicated -- and worrisome -- than what he'd been thinking.

"Are you involved in something dangerous?" He kept his voice equally low.

"Yes."

"Then I can't stay away."

"You have to. Promise me that you'll stay away."

He couldn't. He just couldn't.

"Promise me," she repeated, more loudly this time, and there was a look on her face that he'd never seen before. Desperation? Pleading? He almost felt compelled to look away, as if witnessing the unfiltered emotion -- as if glimpsing his own wife's real self -- was somehow an invasion of privacy.

"I promise," he said.

It was a lie. He couldn't stay away. George was right. Paul was involved in whatever was going on, Charles could feel it, and there was only one chance to stop him. He wondered whether Madeline would trust that he had good reasons, or if she was the one who would wind up feeling betrayed.

"Thank you," she said.

She caressed his face and leaned in to kiss him. To his surprise, the bitterness of his lie only made her lips taste sweeter.


	29. Chapter 29

Adrian glanced at her watch. Half-past noon. She picked up the mission checklist from her desk and approached the row of television screens embedded in the wall. She pushed a button, and the camera feed from Van Access lit up one of the screens.

She expected to see a flurry of activity as technicians loaded the van. However, Van Access was completely empty.

Was there something wrong with her watch? No. The timestamp in the corner of the screen read 12:32. For an uncertain moment, she contemplated the possibility that her memory might have failed her. While it had never done so before, she had to accept the possibility that even she might eventually be vulnerable to the more distasteful effects of the aging process. But no, upon reflection, that wasn't it. This mission was all she had been thinking about -- all she had been _able_ to think about -- for the past several days, and she knew without even an iota of doubt that the team was scheduled for egress at precisely 13:00.

Why, then, was no one engaged in prep?

A painful wave of heat and constricting muscles seized her body. She flung the checklist onto the desk and exited the office. Heading downstairs, she trod so forcefully that the metal stairway shook with the motion of her descent. Below, a hush fell over the room. Operatives stopped what they were doing and craned their necks upward, until the only sound remaining was the echo of her footsteps.

She found Paul just near Comm.

"You're behind schedule. Explain yourself."

"Behind schedule for what?" He looked around at the other operatives milling nearby, frowning as if confused.

Apparently, this was some sort of game. She was in no mood.

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked. "Or is this a joke? If so, your sense of humor leaves a great deal to be desired."

He raised his eyebrows. If she didn't know better, she could have sworn he was suppressing a smile. "Have I ever joked with you?"

He offered no further explanation. He just stood there with that vaguely amused-looking expression. As for the others, they continued to stare dumbly, like cud-chewing cattle. She didn't think anyone had so much as twitched a muscle since she left her office.

She took a menacing step toward Paul.

"Since you seem to be suffering from some sort of mental impairment," she said, "let me refresh your memory. In twenty minutes, your mission is due to depart for Beijing. Why is your team not assembling?"

"Oh, that." He broke into a broad smile. "We're not going."

He _had_ lost his mind. Or she had lost hers.

"I'm not sure I heard you correctly. What was that?"

"We're not going," he repeated. The smile vanished. "Your orders are reckless and I cannot, in good conscience, carry them out." He straightened his shoulders, defiant. "If you're smart, you'll abort the mission. If not, I'll do it for you."

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Walter hide behind his worktable. Most of the other operatives continued their gawking, but a few -- scattered here and there, not so randomly at all, she suddenly realized -- shifted their stances. They appeared to be taking tactical positions.

He had _allies_. Remarkable.

She chuckled. "My, my. A coup d'état. How very daring. But a trifle banana republic, don't you think?"

He shrugged. "I'll give you one more chance to save yourself. Are you going to abort the mission?"

"You've just signed your cancellation order. Pity. I've always been fond of you."

He pulled a gun from his belt and aimed it at her chest. "Then you leave me no choice but to take control of Section."

The room erupted with gasps, shouts, and crashes as people ran or dove for cover. A handful of security operatives drew weapons and aimed them at Paul -- but then still others did the same to them. More than she would have expected. And from all walks of Section. Paul had been better prepared than she would have given him credit for.

She curled a lip in disdain at the gun barrel pointed her way. "I wouldn't have taken you for someone prone to melodrama," she said. "Give up this idiotic stunt."

"I don't think you realize how serious I am."

There was silence. A bead of sweat ran down his face.

Just as she was about to dare him to shoot her, to tell him she wasn't going to make it easy for him, to hold her head high while she taunted him for his cowardice -- there was a commotion across the room. From around a corner, Madeline walked onto the main floor, flanked by an armed security detail. Her escorts stationed themselves by the various exits, but Madeline made her way toward Paul and Adrian.

Thank God. Madeline was the only person who could reason with him. Perhaps it might end without bloodshed after all.

To Adrian's surprise, however, Madeline went to stand beside Paul. Then she addressed the pro-Adrian operatives.

"Lay down your weapons. If you cooperate now, you won't be punished."

Adrian felt as though she'd been struck in the face. Why, that ungrateful turncoat. Paul's rebellion had been expected. In a way, even honorable. But Adrian had taken Madeline from nothing and built her up into what she was. Had pushed her relentlessly to better herself. And afterwards had rewarded and entrusted her with _real_ responsibility. All for nothing: after all Adrian's efforts to mold her, it turned out that Madeline was just as devoid of moral fiber as on the day Adrian first met her.

How sad, really. Adrian had wanted to believe that humans were capable of redemption. If she survived this, she'd never indulge in such folly again.

Guns clattered to the floor as, one by one, Adrian's defenders surrendered. Except for one, Adrian noticed, who was hidden off to the side. He had Paul in his aim. She met his glance and nodded.

Just before the shot rang out, she dropped to the floor.

***

When Charles saw dozens of operatives running down the corridor, he feared he might be too late. He caught a man by the arm and dragged him to a halt.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"A takeover! Run before they start shooting!" cried the man, who then yanked his arm free and took off again.

Charles _did_ run -- but not away. He fought against the stream of people fleeing in the opposite direction. He shoved them aside, even knocked a few down; they were so consumed with panic that they didn't get angry, but rather just scrambled up again.

When he reached the entrance to Section's main floor, he found a crowd huddled just at the threshold to watch from relative safety. He threaded and elbowed his way to the front so he could see, and there it was: Comm, lit like a stage, the players frozen mid-drama. Paul and Madeline faced Adrian, the three of them encircled by armed men and women. No one moved; no one spoke. Paul held his gun with a steady hand; Adrian stared down the barrel just as coolly.

So this was what George had been hinting about. What Madeline, in turn, had warned him to stay away from. This was the source of all the secrecy and the lies and the subterfuge and the coded remarks. Both George and Madeline had known all along what was going to happen, but neither had seen fit to enlighten Charles. And yet they'd each clearly tried to maneuver him into some sort of role. George wanted him as a proxy, someone whose insecurities could be exploited to goad him into doing what George wasn't willing to do himself. In Madeline's case, it was more an _absence_ of a role. She hadn't involved Charles in her plans, hadn't made him her confidante, hadn't even wanted him present. He was her husband, her life's companion, supposedly the person she cared for the most, but she'd excluded him from the only part of her life that really mattered.

Which was worse -- being manipulated by George, or being shut out by Madeline? Being treated as a puppet -- or as a spectator?

Adrian's supporters -- outnumbered -- capitulated quickly. Their loyalty didn't run very deep to begin with, Charles suspected. They placed their guns on the floor and raised their hands.

It was over. Without a shot being fired.

Or maybe not. Adrian glanced toward the far side of the room, and Charles followed her gaze. A man had a gun aimed at Paul.

Paul didn't seem to notice. Neither did Madeline, nor their fellow mutineers.

Charles reached into his jacket pocket and curled his fingers around the grip of his pistol. He could stop this man if he wanted. But why? Why should he involve himself at all? He felt no real sense of duty toward Adrian, and no respect for Paul. Had Madeline asked for his help or support, he'd be standing right there by her side. But she hadn't. She hadn't trusted him, apparently -- or was it something else?

She'd asked him to trust _her_, actually. To accept that if she kept secrets from him, there was good reason. And yes, she'd asked him to stay away, but what if it was because she _didn't_ want him to be a spectator? Because the event he would witness might involve her death? Or even his, if things got out of control?

George had wanted him here, wanted him suspicious and angry, no doubt hoped he would be jealous enough to intervene or even challenge Paul, regardless of the risk it posed. Madeline, in contrast, wanted him elsewhere -- even though she must have known she could have used him easily if only she'd asked. So who, really, had his best interests at heart?

Once upon a time, George had asked Charles what he wanted, if he didn't want command of Section. He hadn't known how to answer. Now he knew. He wanted to live his life with integrity. And that meant when he told his wife he trusted her, he had to mean it.

When Adrian nodded to signal the man to shoot, Charles fired his own gun. The man fell backwards, blood and brains spattering along the floor.

He walked over to Paul and Madeline, aware that the entire room was staring. Adrian gaped at him from where she had sprawled across the floor.

"Shall I escort her to Containment?" he asked Paul. "Sir?" he added. Paul didn't deserve the title, but it didn't matter. Very few things did, and Charles had finally figured out what they were.

Paul blinked a few times, then he cleared his throat. "Yes. Thank you."

***

Alone in her cell, Lisa tossed a rolled-up sock against the door and caught it when it bounced back. It had been days since she awoke there, or was it weeks? She couldn't keep track, and although she had been attended to by her captors and made surprisingly comfortable, no one had told her anything. They brought her food, took her out for showers and exercise, delivered clean clothes and sheets, but kept as mute as monks bound by a vow of silence. She tried asking questions, but they ignored her.

The worst part was the lack of anything to do. For entertainment, she resorted to pushups, then counting as long as she could while balancing on one foot. Next, she sang to herself -- nursery rhymes from childhood, commercial jingles, even disco hits from the seventies, complete with dance moves. When she bored of that, she tried teaching herself to yodel, which made her laugh until she cried.

If anyone was watching -- and of course they would be -- they'd have to think she was completely nuts. If they left her in here too much longer, they might be right in that assessment.

The yodeling had started to hurt her throat, so she finally switched to the sock toss game. It bounced pretty well, considering. She tried hurling it at the door from different angles: basketball free-throw style, softball pitch style, under-the-leg style. She wound up to pitch a fastball -- and then the door opened. The sock hit a man square in the chest and fell to the floor. He eyed it for a moment with an indecipherable look on his face and then looked back up at her.

She waited. This one wasn't carrying anything to give her, so he probably wanted her to follow him somewhere. It was always a guessing game with these people.

"Good morning," he said.

My God! Actual speech! His accent was British, but that didn't tell her anything useful.

"Hello," she replied guardedly. She wasn't going to volunteer too much, not at first. Ultimately, yeah, she'd spill her guts, but they had to work a little for it. Otherwise, they might not believe she was telling the truth, and then she really _might_ be dead.

"I hope you've been made comfortable," he said.

"Yeah."

He headed to the bed and sat. "Do you know where you are?"

She shrugged. "A Red Cell prison somewhere, I guess. Could be anywhere."

"You think you're being held by Red Cell?"

Bzzzzzzt! The tone of his voice told her she'd got something wrong already. She'd better be more circumspect.

"Uh...well...that seemed the most likely."

He smiled. Far from being reassuring, it made him look completely untrustworthy. "Do you really think Red Cell would treat you so hospitably?"

He had a point. It wasn't like Red Cell at all. It wasn't like _anyone_ at all, and that's what bothered her. _He_ bothered her, too. There was something creepy about him. Creepy, and smarmy, and entirely pleased with himself -- which, in Lisa's world, usually meant that he had a nasty trick up his sleeve.

Terrific. All of this time they'd been lulling her into a state of bored somnolence, so that it would be all the more traumatic when they finally tossed her into the dungeon filled with man-eating rats, or the pool of piranha, or the vat of boiling oil, or whatever horrible thing she knew had to be in store.

He continued to stare at her, and she realized he was probably expecting an answer to his question.

"I don't know what to think," she said. Nicely noncommittal -- and also true.

"Then let me enlighten you. You're in a facility belonging to the Center. You _do_ know what that is, don't you?"

She blinked. So _that_ was the nasty trick up his sleeve. She felt it like a kick to the stomach.

"The Center," she said. "You're the ones running the experiment on my sons. I hacked into your database until...until--"

"Until we shut you down," he finished. "Very good. I was beginning to worry that my agents had killed a few too many braincells when they knocked you out with the chloroform. They tell me you've been acting erratic since we brought you in."

Everything now made horrible sense, but then at the same time made no sense whatsoever.

"Why would you chloroform me on a mission?" she asked, baffled. "Aren't the Center and Section One on the same side?"

He laughed. "In a manner of speaking. But you see, security levels at the Center are much stricter than those at Section One. When you joined the Section, you had to die to the outside world. When you join the Center, you have to die to the Section."

"_Join_ Center?"

He held out his hand. "You can call me Mr. Jones. I'm your new employer."


	30. Chapter 30

The guard unlocked the door and held it open for George. George nodded in thanks and entered the room.

It was an empty holding cell -- padded, George noticed. That had to be Paul's doing -- a final insult to Adrian's dignity.

She sat on the floor in the corner, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. The white vacuum of the bare cell almost swallowed her up. She looked tiny, frail, like one might be able to snap her bones with no more than a puff of air aimed her way. Like she might just crumble into dust all by herself.

_What_ have _I done?_ he wondered. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Then again, what _was_ it supposed to be like? He hadn't actually given it any thought. He'd done his best to avoid thinking about it at all, in fact. If there had been a way to ease her out of power without harming her -- a magic wand, or three wishes from a genie -- that would have been ideal. Because there wasn't, he simply had to avoid dwelling on the unpleasant side. Until it stared him in the face, alone and vulnerable.

She climbed to her feet -- unsteadily at first, as if she'd been sitting in the same position too long -- but then her expression brightened.

"Thank God you're here," she said. She clasped his hands so tightly it hurt. "How many of them have you cancelled so far?"

He looked away. "It's a bit complicated."

She let go of his hands. "You line them up against a wall and shoot them," she said sharply. "How is that complicated?"

"The Council has intervened," he explained. "They weren't happy to learn about your plans in China. Some of them seem to believe Paul was justified."

She made a noise of disgust. Angry, she seemed her old self again. "A mutiny is never justified. There are channels--"

"And then there's the money," he interrupted.

"What money?" She frowned.

"The money the Taiwanese paid you to intervene in Beijing. Paul found the records of all the payments."

"No one paid me anything." Her eyes darted back and forth as she took in George's statement. This had clearly caught her off guard, as George knew it would. "If there are records, then Paul planted them himself."

"The Council had experts review them. They're convinced they're genuine." He reached a hand to clasp her shoulder sympathetically. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered. "I could have helped you conceal everything."

She wrenched her shoulder away from his grasp. "You, of all people, believe I would stoop to taking bribes?"

He forced his expression into something he hoped looked kind. "If you say you didn't do this, then I believe you," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't, really, but would play the loyal friend no matter what. "But that might not be enough. The Council is sending an investigator. It's out of my hands now."

***

"Just a few more questions for clarification, if you don't mind." The investigator peered at Paul over the thin, gold rims of his glasses, his pen poised over a notebook.

"Of course," said Paul.

"The one thing I'm having trouble understanding is why you waited to take action. You knew the mission objective was improper from the very beginning. Yet you went ahead and prepared the profile as Adrian directed. Why?"

"Profiles are meaningless," Paul said. "We create theoretical profiles all the time, testing out hypotheticals that we may have no intent of ever putting into action. That alone wouldn't justify a drastic step like mutiny. I had to wait until I received a clear order to carry it out."

"I see." The investigator -- he'd declined to give a name, as had his phalanx of blue-suited assistants -- nodded solemnly and jotted down Paul's answer. Whispering to himself, he ran his finger down what appeared to be a checklist of questions.

Paul stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair. He could afford to relax, at least a little. The investigator clearly wasn't anyone with real authority, just a fact-collector. Still, it was important to make a good impression. Paul adopted an elaborate military courtesy with the man, tossing off a multitude of "Sirs" and official-sounding jargon. The bloodless pencil-pusher probably wouldn't understand half of it, but that was a large part of the effect. Paul also made sure to weave name-dropping of his outside contacts into his answers as often as possible; he noticed that the investigator's note-scribbling became distinctly more energetic each time he did.

He suspected that this was a mere formality. They wouldn't be bothering with interviews and investigations if there was any chance that Adrian would be retained. Instead, they would have brought out a firing squad.

The investigator turned to the last page of his checklist. "Aside from the Taiwanese payments we already went over," he asked, "have you found evidence of any other illicit transactions?"

"No. Not yet, at least. We're still reviewing older records. Of course, it's possible that data may be unrecoverable. So we may never know the full extent of her misconduct."

Paul had to bite back a smile. Although the prospect of being obligated to George made him uneasy, he knew this was the coup de grâce for Adrian. There wasn't proof enough to get her cancelled, but her reputation would never recover from the accusations. Paul was impressed that Madeline managed to salvage the mess Lisa had created, but then he should have known better than to underestimate Madeline's resourcefulness and persistence. She hadn't told him how she'd done it -- she still seemed to harbor a bit of resentment at the way he had spoken to her after Lisa's death -- but she'd come around. After all, she never stayed angry at him. Especially when they had a triumph to celebrate. He'd put a bottle of Bollinger on ice, and after a few toasts she wouldn't be able to resist gloating about how she'd succeeded in doing what he said she couldn't. Then he'd laugh and all would be well, because while Madeline was obsessed with always being right, he couldn't give a damn. Right, wrong, whatever -- he knew that didn't really matter. Instead, what he cared about was coming out on top. It was the end game, not how you got there.

The investigator snapped his notebook shut and stood, offering his hand.

"Thank you for your candor," he said. "You can be assured that the Council appreciates your assistance."

Paul shook the man's hand firmly, then, what the hell, threw in a salute. It was time to bring a little spit and polish into Section.

It was time for change. Change on his terms. Now _that_ was something to celebrate.

***

"This was a difficult decision to make." Simpson stared at Adrian from his seat at the head of the Council table. His forehead glowed with a sheen that somehow made his face seem as stiff and pompous as his words. "I think I speak for all my colleagues when I say that we have the utmost respect for your profound contributions toward making this a safer, more democratic--"

Adrian stood. "Please. Spare me. It's obvious why I'm here. At least do me the courtesy of being done with it."

The five men exchanged looks with each other, looked at their hands, looked at the table -- looked everywhere except in her direction.

"We'd like you to retire," said Strickland, finally.

"Retire?"

"We'll provide a generous pension," said Reynolds in his avuncular drawl. "And even a staff to assist you in your future pursuits." He smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to take up charitable work," he offered.

"A staff to _assist_ me," Adrian repeated, scornful. "You mean a team of minders to ensure I don't get up to any mischief."

Reynolds chuckled. "The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."

She glared at him until his smile began to waver. They might be able to strip away everything she possessed, but, by God, they wouldn't patronize her.

"I'm being imprisoned, aren't I?" she said. "Why not just come out and say it?"

"That depends on how you choose to look at it," he replied. "I hope you can come to see your situation in a more positive light."

He had dispensed with the kindly old man façade, but there was still a trace of sympathy. Perhaps it was even genuine. Somehow, that felt worse than condescension.

Her shoulders sagged, bereft of anger. "What's to become of my organization?"

"There's going to be a restructuring," said Laplace.

"A restructuring." She laughed. "Let me guess. You've handed control of the Sections to Center."

Their uncomfortable expressions confirmed that her guess was correct. So Phillip had managed to pull everything into his slimy grasp at last. She'd made a noble stand, but the old boys' network still triumphed in the end. The only comfort was that Phillip would detest Paul even more than he did Adrian. And the feeling, she was quite certain, would be more than mutual. It served them both right. They deserved each other.

"Bringing everyone under the same umbrella eliminates redundancies," said Simpson. He seemed to think that she might actually care what pathetic rationale they invented to justify their actions. "It's more efficient in the long run," he explained.

"Of course," added Laplace, "integrating the Sections with Center will be a significant administrative challenge. That's why we've created a third organizational layer to act as a buffer between them."

"We're calling it Oversight," said Simpson. "We've decided to put George in charge of it."

That caught her attention. "He's not being asked to retire?"

"No, he's staying on," answered Strickland. "You should thank him, by the way."

"Oh?"

"He made a rather spirited defense of your character." Strickland's curled lip suggested how little he thought of the attempt. "It's only because of him that we're granting you any privileges at all."

Good old dependable George. She should have sought his advice and support more often. If she'd had someone to turn to, someone to share her burdens with, perhaps the outcome would have been different. But she hadn't wanted him to be dragged into her political battles. What a relief that his career wouldn't be tainted by his association with her.

Actually, now that she reflected upon it, it was more than a relief. His presence at Oversight offered some hope. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe all wasn't lost. George -- stalwart, loyal George -- could fight to preserve her legacy even as Phillip and Paul sought to dismantle it. Although he could never prevail by himself, he might be able to slow down the inevitable -- and that, in turn, would give her time. Time to think. To assess her mistakes. To regroup. To plan. To gather manpower and resources. To fight. And yes, to rise again. This time in triumph.

She wasn't vanquished at all. How could she be? She was the mother of the Sections, and no one could take her children from her. Least of all these imbeciles. Why, they weren't even worthy of her anger.

She swept her gaze across the table and smiled, gracious and magnanimous. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your kind words. I've considered your offer, and have decided to accept it. I'm looking forward to a fruitful and rewarding retirement."

***

The chilly air struck Lisa before she'd even crossed the threshold. Inside the room, she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off goosebumps -- but then forgot the temperature entirely as soon as she had a chance to see her surroundings. She stood inside a vast, climate-controlled IT center. It stretched farther than she could see: row upon row upon row of clustered multiprocessors, so state-of-the-art it made Section One's systems look like a collection of medieval abacuses. There wasn't a speck of dust in the room; the polished floors gleamed in the bright overhead light. She fought the impulse to touch one of the computers the way one might stroke the wax finish of a racing car: they were beautiful, but so flawless that even a fingerprint on one of the panels might ruin the aesthetic.

Mr. Jones waved his hand in a grand gesture that encompassed the entire room. "This is all yours," he announced. "Make yourself at home."

"Are you serious?" She laughed, incredulous. When he smiled and nodded, she said, "They did everything they could to keep me _away_ from computers in Section."

"Yes. So they did." He watched her inspect one of the clusters for a few moments. "You've been researching the experiment with your sons quite extensively the past few years," he said, and there was an odd undertone to his voice that made her look up. "Tell me, what do you think the object is?"

To break up families? To fuck with people's lives? Those were the real answers, as far as she was concerned, but she knew better than to say so. His question was some sort of test, she could tell from the nervous flutters that erupted in her stomach, but what kind of answer was he looking for? After years of practice, she knew how to read Adrian, but this Jones was a cipher.

Best to stick with simple facts, at least to start with. "The object is to test genetic aptitude for certain skills," she said blandly. "You give one sibling intensive training and use the other as a control by letting him live a normal life."

"So one is encouraged, and the other left to his own devices?"

"Yeah. That's right."

He shook his head in disappointment. "I'm afraid you've missed something rather important."

Oh, for God's sake. She couldn't even get the safe answer right? Dealing with the unwritten rules of Center was like learning an entirely new language.

"The study doesn't compare two family members," Jones went on. "It compares _three_." He smiled with an air of cultivated patience, like a schoolteacher with a particularly backwards student. "One is encouraged; one left alone; and the other is actively _discouraged_."

_Three_ family members. Not two. The flutters in her stomach turned into cold, churning nausea. Three meant Seymour, Jason -- and Lisa.

The experiment she thought she was researching, thought she was combating, thought she was outwitting -- thought she could save her sons from -- had actually encompassed _her_ within its scope all along. And she didn't need Jones to tell her which of the three of them had been the discouraged one. All that time, she had struggled and been denied, set back, thwarted, slapped down -- and it hadn't been due to her own mistakes or miscalculations. It hadn't been due to Jules being a sexist ass or Adrian a shortsighted fool. It hadn't even been due to the phenomenally bad luck Lisa thought she was saddled with. It was all _scripted_.

She had thought she was living a real life, with real risks and accomplishments; in actuality, she was just a little white mouse running through a maze, while bored lab technicians took notes. Drop in a hunk of cheese, they'd say to each other, and watch her scurry!

She covered her face with her hands. She would have groaned, but no sound came out.

"Come now," said Jones. "You developed a remarkable talent despite every obstacle we placed in your path. You should be proud."

She grabbed hold of a nearby chair and sat before her legs could crumple beneath her. She had no more energy to stand. No more energy to talk. She had no more energy for anything, ever.

He took a seat next to her.

"You're lucky, you know," he said. "You were born with a gift. Not everyone is."

She didn't say anything in response. What was there to say? She just stared at the floor, drained.

"Have you read Plato?" he asked.

At this, she looked up at him and laughed. What the hell did that have to do with anything? "No," she answered.

"You should," he said. He cleared his throat and once again adopted a pedagogical mode, although what lesson he was trying to convey, if any, was beyond Lisa's comprehension. "He believed that humans are, at birth, imbued with certain temperaments that suit them for different roles in society. There are the commoners, for example, driven by the craving for pleasure. The warriors, who seek honor. And finally, the philosophers, who desire knowledge. In Plato's ideal society, the commoners would be protected by the warriors, who in turn would be led by the philosophers."

Was this a riddle? More of the experiment? Or was Jones simply insane? Lisa began to suspect all three. Section One and looming cancellation started to look rather appealing in comparison to falling down this rabbithole of delusion.

"Plato's system is a beautiful model for our organization," said Jones. He was enthusiastic now, his voice louder, his expression animated. "What better way to describe the Sections than as a fierce warrior caste, selected and trained to defend the unknowing masses?"

That settled it. He _was_ a lunatic. She might as well play along.

"So that makes you…?" she prompted.

"The philosopher-king, of course!" He threw his head back and laughed. When he finished, he asked, "You think I'm spouting utter nonsense, don't you?"

Yes. And no. Just when she'd decided he was certifiably crazy, she spotted a twinkle in his eye that made her wonder if he might be engaged in an elaborate joke. At her expense, no doubt.

She shrugged in surrender. This was all too exhausting. A lesson, a test, a game, a joke -- whatever he was up to, she no longer cared.

He frowned, apparently sensing her exasperation. "My point is simply this," he said, serious once more. "Some people are born with talents that ought to be developed and put to public service. For the greater good of all. You're one of these people. You've proven yourself worthy."

"Worthy for what?"

"Worthy to help me create my life's work. It's called Veytoss."


	31. Chapter 31

When George arrived, he found Paul pacing impatiently in Section One's conference area. George glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes late, just as he planned. He'd considered making it thirty, but that would have been too obvious. No, twenty was perfect, judging by the angry flush in Paul's cheeks.

George could have demanded that Paul come to Oversight's newly-opened offices. He decided, instead, that the symbolism was better at Section One. Meeting here served as a reminder to Paul that Section was George's territory, not Paul's. A reminder that Paul was a caretaker, not an owner, and that he held his privileges only at George's sufferance.

George went to stand -- quite deliberately -- a little too close to Paul. It was intended as another territorial encroachment, one meant to force Paul to step backwards in an acknowledgement of his subordination. Paul, however, remained resolutely in place, staring at George with those pallid eyes that always seemed so vacant of anything but self-absorption. Alas, once George adopted his stance he could hardly reverse himself, so they were stuck in place, inches away from each other's faces, trapped in nauseating proximity to each other.

"I'll be forwarding Oversight's new protocols within the week," said George. "You'll be expected to conform to them to the letter."

"Of course."

"You will submit weekly reports on all activities. In addition, once a month, you'll attend a Committee meeting at Oversight with the other Section heads."

"Understood."

George leaned in even closer, so close he could barely stand it. "There will be no black ops," he growled, "no secret projects, no off-the-book accounts -- and absolutely _no_ deviation from my instructions."

"Whatever you say." Paul didn't change expression in the slightest, but he still managed to convey the impression that he was smirking -- as if delighting in the prospect of violating every single instruction George had just given.

"I'm glad that's clear," George said, but he wasn't glad at all. In fact, the veins in his temple were starting to throb.

Being caught between Phillip and Paul was like being consigned to one of the inner circles of hell. A fitting punishment, he supposed, for his treachery. Except that it _wasn't_ treachery. Adrian had been on a path of self-destruction. If things had taken their natural course -- if George hadn't intervened to ease her out in a controlled fashion -- she might very well have wound up dead instead of retired in splendor on her plush country estate. He'd saved her life. He'd saved the very organizations that she held so dear. He'd done the right thing, really, and he deserved accolades, not punishment.

In any event, Paul's ascension at Section One was just a temporary setback. One that George would now bring to an end. Or at least he could take the first step in that direction.

He took a step backwards to put Paul at ease. "Now that's all settled, I'd like to address a more sensitive matter."

"Yes?"

"It's about Charles Sand."

"Really?" Paul's forehead creased in surprise.

"There is a source," said George, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level, "who I'm afraid must remain confidential. He claims that Charles has been passing intel to Red Cell."

It was a complete fabrication, and not even a very believable one. But it didn't have to be: it was mere bait to dangle in front of Paul. Would he bite?

Paul looked dubious. "Charles? Working with Red Cell?"

George shrugged. "There's no real proof. In fact, I don't find it credible in the least. However...."

Paul raised his eyebrows.

"It's somewhat inconvenient for there to be suspicion cast on someone -- how do I put this -- so _intimately_ connected to Section's leadership," said George. "Especially so soon after the recent upheavals. An investigation -- no matter how it turned out -- would reflect badly on everyone and might undermine the Council's confidence in the new leadership structure."

"I see." Paul nodded gravely. He'd bitten, just as George hoped. Now all that remained to be seen was whether the hook would catch or not.

"It might be better," George said, "if the issue could be resolved informally, without the Council having to be involved."

"I agree."

"Then I trust you'll take care of it."

"I'll make it my top priority."

And so the hook caught. Charles, of course, was utterly finished. Which he thoroughly deserved, as far as George was concerned. George had virtually pressed a gun into the man's hand and pasted a target on Paul's chest, and what had Charles done? Saved Paul's life. The idiot. He could have solved all their problems so very neatly, but instead he threw that opportunity away. George didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.

However, eliminating Charles wasn't the point, in and of itself. Rather, the aim was to undermine Paul. Aside from Paul himself and perhaps Madeline, Charles was Section One's most experienced field operative, and during this latest fiasco he'd shown himself willing to be loyal to Paul despite having every reason to hate the man. That made Charles an asset: one that Paul was too much of an egotist to appreciate, and that George would therefore take away from him -- chipping away at Section's foundation, bit by bit, until it began to crumble out from under Paul's feet. The fact that George had maneuvered Paul into sabotaging himself only made things all the more satisfying. It might also -- or at least George hoped -- drive a wedge between Paul and Madeline. The day _that_ happened, George was quite certain, would be the day Paul's reign would come to a crashing demise.

"Very well then," said George. "I'll contact you to schedule the first Committee meeting sometime in the next fortnight." He gathered up his overcoat to take his leave. As he made his way to the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "It slipped my mind until now, but I suppose I should extend my congratulations on your promotion."

"I could say the same to you."

Indeed he could. George smiled. The game had begun.

***

Madeline found Adrian's office -- no, Paul's office, she reminded herself -- completely empty. It had been stripped of all furniture, decorations, equipment -- even the floors appeared scrubbed clean, as if somehow that would banish Adrian's shade from within the walls. It didn't work. In fact, the cleansing only seemed to draw more attention to her absence.

Paul stood by the window ledge, watching through the glass at the activities on the floor below. When Madeline joined him, he looked up and smiled.

After all their plotting, all their struggles, they were victorious. It shocked her how good it felt: a dizzy euphoria gripped her, and the scope of the risk they'd faced only made it more exquisite. The feeling would fade, she knew, and then they'd have to seek out another challenge, like high-stakes gamblers addicted to beating the odds. But for now, it was glorious.

Eventually, Paul broke the spell. "Have you reviewed the protocols from Oversight?" he asked.

She nodded. "They're completely unworkable."

He rolled his eyes. "Then we'll have to ignore them."

"While appearing to comply, of course."

"Of course."

They shared a smile of silent understanding.

"We'll have to draw up our own internal regulations as well," he said.

"I've begun that process already."

"Good." He scowled. "I want the rules tightened up. Adrian let us get away with murder," he grunted. "I won't make the same mistake."

"I agree," said Madeline. "However," she added, "I suggest that we improve material conditions for anyone Level Two or above. Housing upgrades and enhanced expense allowances, all across the board." At his questioning look, she explained, "We need to reassure experienced personnel that they made the right decision in supporting us."

"What about those who didn't?"

"Some, we can remobilize to less desirable locations. Others, we'll need to purge."

"Mmm." He frowned. "How badly is that going to make us bleed?"

She shrugged. "We'll manage. With a little creative resource allocation, we can achieve full quotas in most departments within ninety days. The main exception is with the field operatives. I recommend implementation of an accelerated recruitment program over the next several quarters." He nodded, and she added, "Fortunately, we'll have Charles to manage tactical, and his experience will help compensate for some of the shortages."

"Ah. Yes. Charles." Paul turned to stare out the window. "When you first married him, I was skeptical. But you were right. It did turn out to be a good idea." He turned back to look at her, and there was something in his expression she couldn't quite read. "The marriage has served its purpose now. There's no real reason to keep it up."

Wasn't there? She blinked in surprise. Perhaps not. After all, she had married Charles for eminently practical reasons, not the least of which was her belief that it might persuade him to side with them during a crisis. And she'd been right: he had, just when it counted the most. Goal achieved -- and that should have been that.

Why, then, did the suggestion that she end her marriage -- that she discard it like the empty promise she knew it was -- sting her with a sharp prick of resentment? For that matter, if her motives were as purely pragmatic as she liked to believe, why had she been so desperate to keep Charles away from Section One -- away from where he could be useful, but also away from where he'd be in danger -- on the day of the coup?

So far, she'd avoided asking herself that question. Now that Paul posed it for her, the answer was actually rather simple. It was because she _liked_ coming home to Charles. Liked it more than she ever would have anticipated.

Her relationship with Paul might be more passionate. It was more _everything_, in fact -- and perhaps that was the very problem. Paul was like Section itself: rapacious, all-consuming to the point where, unless she held something back, unless she drew a circle and stood inside its boundaries, declaring "This is where _I_ exist," he would demand everything. Or Section would demand everything. Or both of them would, now that they were one and the same.

Her marriage was that circle of independent existence. And Charles? She might not feel a burning desire for him, but what did that matter? Romantic love, after all, was irrational and destructive. Stability, warmth, mutual respect, affection: those were the things Charles offered. Those were good things. Things worth having. There was no shame in choosing them.

Her resentment faded, replaced by resolve. She looked at Paul steadily. "Married life suits me," she said. "I find it helps me focus on my work."

Section was insatiable, and Paul voracious. She understood that. She accepted it. She'd gladly give them everything she possessed -- except this one thing.

This one thing would be hers, and hers alone. She didn't think that was too much to ask.

***

Life at Center was everything Lisa could have asked for. She had her own residential suite, with a big-screen TV and a stereophonic home entertainment system, an exercise room, and a sauna. So that she didn't have to be bothered expending any effort to take care of herself, she had a cook, a maid, an assistant, a personal trainer, and a masseuse. She knew they were all spying on her and reporting to Jones, but she was nice to them anyway, because hey, what choice did they have? At the IT center she was now in charge of, she had a virtually unlimited budget to buy equipment so advanced it wasn't even on the market yet, plus an entire staff of hand-selected programmers to do her bidding. They were all terrified of her because she was the boss, so she was nice to them, too. No one shot at her anymore, and as far as she could tell no one ever would again; instead, she got to sit in front of a computer terminal all day long, working at the job of her dreams.

Life at Center, however, was nothing Lisa wanted. Because now she knew she'd never leave.

Center was a prison, in actuality, and she had a life sentence. It was all thanks to Veytoss. In order to create it -- or him, as she and her staff kept falling into the uncomfortable habit of saying -- she'd been given access to every single piece of data possessed by Center, as well as by Oversight and the Sections. As a result, she held the same security clearance as Jones himself. He, however, was the "philosopher king" and she the mere servant: while he could therefore come and go as he wished, she was confined to the premises.

Forever.

Jones warned her that if she ever contacted anyone outside Center, for whatever reason, he'd have that person killed. She believed him, and so she didn't even try. She confined her human interaction to her household staff, who were really her jailers, and her professional staff, who were really her prisoners. She spent her days constantly talking to people, and yet it was still a form of solitary confinement.

The world outside Center existed only on television or through the lens of a surveillance camera. Sometimes she turned on random feeds while she worked, like airport security networks or even traffic monitoring systems, just so she could feel like she'd gone somewhere. Mostly, however, she found herself tapping into Section One's surveillance -- she was homesick, and Section, oddly enough, felt a lot like home. Once, she spent an entire day trailing Walter as he went about his work. She ached to do something to get his attention, maybe to signal "hello" in Morse Code via flickering lights, but then she remembered Jones's warning and stopped herself. Jones had told her she was dead to the Section, and it was true. She was a ghost, omnipresent and invisible, able to watch and listen at will, but unable to come to life.

The other thing that Jones made very clear was that if she involved herself in any way in the lives of her sons -- to help them, protect them, or God forbid free them -- he'd have _them_ killed, too. Her part in the experiment may have been over, but theirs would continue -- and no interference by her would be tolerated.

She could, however, watch over them. She could witness their lives from a distance, through status reports and surveillance footage. She could take pride in their triumphs and celebrate their moments of happiness. And if any harm ever befell either one of them, she could take revenge against whoever was responsible. Slow, meticulous, relentless, _pitiless_ revenge. A revenge so subtle that the victim wouldn't recognize what was happening, but so thorough that there could be no escape. She might be a ghost, but thanks to Veytoss -- with his power over careers, over finances, over lives -- she could still reach out from the grave and bestow a curse.

That, however, was the future, something that might never come to pass. There was also the past to account for: wrongs already committed that cried out for justice. A man who treated her family as his plaything. A man who thought he was a god, or at least a king. She'd bring that man back down to earth and remind him he was a mortal, just like her -- that like all mortals, he could be judged and face retribution.

She couldn't kill him. Nothing so blatant or obvious. He had her watched day and night, and she'd never get the chance. Nor could she take a sledgehammer and smash Veytoss to bits, which was her second impulse. Jones would just cancel her and start all over again with another programmer.

So she thought about it. Obsessed over it. Ran through the options in her mind while she exercised on her treadmill, while she played old movies on the big-screen TV, while she scarfed down banana splits served to her in bed, while she walked through her state-of-the-art IT center at midnight and watched everyone work. And it finally came to her. The cruelest, most fitting punishment would be to give him exactly what he thought he wanted.

He wanted Veytoss to give him the answers to everything. He wanted to create a utopia led by a genetically-endowed elite. She'd give him both those things. Except that since he thought it was morally acceptable to enslave her children in the process, why, the same standard would apply to _his_ family, too.

Her security clearance gave her access to everything -- including information about his daughters. One of them was already a prisoner, more or less -- coddled and spoiled and pampered, to be sure, but just as much a captive as Lisa. But there was another: a daughter who had her freedom. Not a false, provisional, we-can-yank-it-away-in-an-instant pseudo-freedom like Jason had, but the real thing.

It wasn't fair. So Veytoss -- as programmed by Lisa -- would put an end to that. Veytoss was going to proclaim this girl the savior and the chosen one, and if Jones truly believed in his own fucked-up philosophy, he'd have no choice but to do as Veytoss demanded. This girl would be recruited, and then Jones -- just like Lisa -- would have to sit by helplessly and watch, prohibited from intervening, while his own child was "tested" for genetic worthiness. All because Veytoss said so, and because Jones was madman enough to follow the dictates of silicon prophet.

Veytoss was power. Veytoss was also karma.

And karma was about to meet a girl named Nikita.

***

A steady ant trail of workers trudged in and out of Madeline's new office. Some carried boxes; others arranged furniture; still others installed fixtures. Doing her best to ignore the background noise, Kathleen, the senior administrator of Recruiting, spread out several files across the coffee table. The top one bore the label, "Samuelle, M."

"We followed your search parameters and identified twenty-three potential recruits," said Kathleen. "But I've looked over the files and, honestly, I don't think any of them are going to work out."

"We'll see." Madeline leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and examined the other woman carefully. Kathleen, Madeline suspected, didn't fully understand Madeline's new criteria. She hadn't yet adapted from Adrian's way of doing things. She'd better adjust quickly if she wanted to keep her job. They were short-staffed, certainly, but everyone was still expendable.

Kathleen began to clasp and unclasp her hands in her lap, as if uncomfortable being the subject of such intense scrutiny. She and Madeline never got along particularly well. Once, in fact, shortly after Madeline married Charles, Kathleen had made a snide remark about Madeline sleeping her way to the top. Madeline hadn't forgotten it. Neither had Kathleen, judging by the way she now squirmed in her seat at the prospect of Madeline being second-in-command.

Madeline wouldn't hold it against her. As powerful as the temptation might be, she wouldn't allow herself to indulge in petty grudges. She was stronger than that, she told herself, and that's why she deserved to wield the power she now held.

Still, she couldn't help but derive a certain enjoyment from seeing how nervous Kathleen seemed. There was no point setting her mind at ease, at least not immediately. She'd let the anxiety intensify a while longer before she revealed herself to be the gracious victor, and then Kathleen would be all the more in her debt.

It was always useful to hold a debt. Madeline was starting to collect them.

"I think that's all for now," she said, polite but cold. "Thank you, Kathleen."

Kathleen departed as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a run, the relief on her face apparent. Madeline gathered the files and placed them on her desk for later review. Despite Kathleen's doubts, Madeline hoped she could salvage a few decent prospects out of the collection.

However, while additional recruits would help in the long term, they needed short-term solutions as well. They'd done the best they could to restructure with the resources they had. Thanks to some imaginative personnel reassignments, they'd managed to keep most departments running without major disruptions. But Madeline still felt as if they were only one step ahead of disaster -- that a badly-timed death or illness or just a simple mistake could bring missions to a standstill.

The biggest headache was Systems. There weren't actually many Adrian loyalists there to purge. That would have been easier to deal with. The real problem was far more entrenched: a culture of laziness, of doing just the minimum necessary to get by, of cutting corners and finding ways to shift the blame. It was the sort of thing that couldn't be remedied by replacing marginal performers here and there -- their entire approach to work had to be relearned. Perhaps from scratch.

Madeline had anticipated commencing that process by putting Lisa -- an outsider -- in charge. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option. She'd have to keep Jules on, for now.

But maybe not _too_ much longer.

Lisa's son -- that boy up on Level 16 -- had shown himself to be a genuine prodigy: the kind that existed in fiction but one never expected to meet in real life. He'd planted those fake financial records so perfectly that the Council's data forensics team had been completely fooled. It was remarkable. And if he could do _that_ \-- with hardly any effort, it had seemed -- what miracles might he accomplish if she turned him loose in Systems?

That might just be the answer. She'd have to test him out in stages, of course. She couldn't just place a 12-year-old in charge of a mission-critical department. So she'd retain Jules and assign this boy -- what was his name again? Seymour? -- small projects here and there, just to see how he handled them. If he did well, if he had the kind of potential that Madeline believed he did, then in a few more years, who knew? Jules might wind up working for him instead of the other way around.

Was it crossing an ethical line to put a child -- however brilliant -- to work? Probably. There was also the promise she'd made to Lisa to find a way to set Seymour free. She'd meant it at the time, but, well, that was before she knew what he was capable of. As nice a gesture to Lisa's memory as it might be, throwing away a resource like that would be foolish. Besides, what meaning did a promise to the dead have, anyway? It wasn't like Lisa was still around to be grateful.

It was settled, then. She would go ahead and use him. Curiously, she didn't feel any guilt at the prospect. Once, she might have felt a twinge -- a compulsion to justify herself, to rationalize away the actions that left her morally uncomfortable. Now, she reached inside -- and felt nothing. She had no more doubts, and thus felt no more need to persuade or reassure herself. She knew her place in the world, knew her purpose in life, knew the significance of her identity -- and knew exactly what she was and wasn't willing to do. There were no more unresolved choices, and thus no more questions to ask -- only work to do and action to take.

Somewhere along the way, she'd crossed a threshold. She wasn't sure where, and she wasn't sure when, but she knew there was no going back. Maybe that was a kind of freedom. Or maybe it was a kind of death.

It didn't matter. She'd died so many times already; what was once more?

***The End***


End file.
